Product Placement
by Kokolo
Summary: HK x Butch Slash - A collection of oneshots and some multi chapters depicting the transition of relations between a certain storyteller and a certain hustler. Rated from PG to M. Slightly OOC and some liberties have been taken. You have been warned.
1. First One's On Me

**I've been holding this back for quite a while now, and I really do want some feedback from someone other than the other two people I've shown this too. It is, admittedly, a crack paring. They've never once interacted (maybe once) and they've been in a grand total of like five episodes together. But I just can't help myself. I hope you enjoy anyway.**

**Just in case you randomly clicked in: This is slash starring aged-up Hustler Kid and Butch. There will be drinking. There will be gay.  
So... just putting this out there. Let me know what you think. **

* * *

Butch was…confused. He stared at the small card. Who in the hell had business cards in the tenth grade? Seriously. He didn't even know who this guy _was_. He had to ask around. People thought he was crazy… or maybe they were just shocked they were asking him things when he was the one that usually knew stuff. Turns out the guy was pretty well known. A hustler, somebody who could get you stuff through questionable means as long as you were able to pay for them. Pay being the operative word.

It was a little strange to be approached by someone who supposedly had such a good handle on the school as a unit (apparently this guy had been around and hustling since, like, second grade). It was weird that someone like that needed someone like him to help 'move merch,' as he put it. It was all suddenly out of the blue, too. No warning at all this guy pops out of the ground and asks him to do some stuff (he really wasn't paying that much attention) and then shoves a card in his hand and walks off like nothing happened. Talk about weird.

So, Butch sat in his basement room, twirling the card over and over in his hand. The guy said to give him a call after school. It was after school. But it was also kinda late. He was probably eating dinner with his family right about now. Butch grinned. Well, if he was going to pop up outta nowhere and bother him, then so was he.

O///////O

He really wasn't expecting him to pick up and answer like that. He wasn't expecting it. So he hung up. Twice. The hustler finally got him to stay on the phone for more than ten seconds and arranged a meeting date. Butch thought it made him sound like an asshole, so he cut him off and told him to stop by when he was done eating dinner or whatever he did at this time.

He showed up at his door about ten minutes later.

Though rather confused about it ("Dude, don't you have a fucking family or something?"), Butch let him in and showed him downstairs. His parents were out, which would have made this ridiculously convenient if Hustler was some really banging chick, but for now it was just easier to get him down the stairs without any interruptions. He loved his mom, but seriously, not everyone needed cookies when they stepped through the threshold.

Hustler eyed the basement skeptically, stepping over a pile of what he assumed was clothing.

"You… operate from the basement?" He ventured, trying not to sound weirded out. True, the boy was known for lurking in shadows like a regular phantom, but this was a little much.

"Hell yeah." Butch drawled, plopping down on the couch "Fought tooth and nail for this place once my big brother Joey went off to college."

"Ah, the infamous Joey. The man who gave you your… deformity." He gestured to his hair and Butch grinned smugly.

"Mmyep. Take off your coat and stay a while." He offered, stretching out a bit.

Hustler did no such thing. Rather, he sat at the unused edge of the couch and glanced around. Nothing inherently… dangerous. It looked like a teenaged boys room; messy and unkempt and horrifically normal. A far cry from his own house. He was bored most of the time. What else was there to do but sell things and keep it obsessively neat? He glanced around again, and his gaze settled on a large container toward the edge of the room. His mind, for some strange reason, instantly thought terrible, horrible things abut what was being kept in there. He shook back that thought. Why would anything like that be there? Butch and his crazy stories… All lies. He cleared his throat and turned to Butch, bent on starting his business proposal.

"What's in the cooler?" flew out of is mouth instead.

Butch sat up and tilted his head, peering past the salesman to where he was gesturing. Yep. There was a cooler He didn't remember that being here before.

"Dunno." He said, getting up "Lemme check."

"Don't get bitten."

"I'll try my very hardest."

Butch kicked open the cooler unceremoniously and to his delight, found it stuffed with ice and beer. He laughed, picking up to bottled and clinking them together.

"Ha! Lookie what we got here. Looks like Joey left me a little present."

"Is that beer?"

"Why yes. Yes it is. Would you like one?"

"No… thank you. I'm not a very big drinker."

"But I fished it out for you and everything. See? The top's still on, and it's roofie free. Scout's honor."

"Again, I'm not a big drinker-"

"It's a _beer_ Hustler. Not a Jaeger bomb." He waggled the bottle within his reach "Lighten up, wouldja?"

The hustler looked at the dripping bottle and blinked. He shouldn't. He really shouldn't. He was a terrible, terrible lightweight, and last time he tried he passed out after doing God knows what with God knows who for- well, he actually didn't want to think about it that much. Based on that, he probably shouldn't have even looked up at Butch's half-smiling face to search for any ill meaning. There wasn't any. He just wiggled the bottle and waited for him to take it. Hustler stared a little longer, then, weighing the options. He shouldn't, but he needed to forge some sort of camaraderie. Well, not so much need as really, really want. Based on that, he really didn't have a choice. Besides, it had been a year or two since that blackout incident; maybe he built up more of a tolerance. The fact he wasn't exactly having the best day ever might have helped his decision, too.

"So? You gonna take it or not?"

"…Sure."

What was the worst that could happen?

O/////O

Three beers later, the two teens were dissolved in a fit of giggles over something Butch had said that neither could really remember. It was funny, though, so they laughed. A lot.

That being said, Francis was totally smashed. Butch was very nearly there. He hadn't mean to drink as much as he had, but he got so caught up watching the hustler slip into a giggly mess that he lost track and got drunk too. Not that he minded. Butch was a mellow drunk, if not a little louder and more… touchy.

Currently, the both of them were right up next to each other, a far cry from the opposite ends of the couch they each claimed upon the hustler's arrival. They swayed a bit, especially Butch, and bumped shoulders more often than not. Eventually the storyteller just settled for leaning on him and babbling through a story that Hustler, for some reason, thought was the most hysterical thing in the world. All his laughing was making Butch laugh, and before long they were laughing so hard they were gripping their sides and fell over on each other.

Neither noticed anything that could have possibly been misconstrued about their position. They were just laughing. Butch was between Francis' legs, half-curled on his chest and hugging his sides, and Francis was arching his back and gripping at the couch. But they were just laughing. Two pals, laughing away at something. They couldn't remember exactly _what_, but it was funny, so they laughed. Eventually, they calmed down. Butch though Francis was comfy (he had said-repeatedly- to call him Francis after the first beer) so he stayed curled up on his chest, trying to catch his breath. Francis thought both Butch and Butch's couch were comfy and inviting, so he put up no fight.

After a few minutes of quiet, Butch uncurled and looked up at the hustler, who was staring over the armrest at some particularly interesting thing that Butch couldn't see.

"Hey…" Butch started, catching his attention after a little bit of poking "'Ey…"

"…Yeah?" the other answered after a few moments of thinking just how to answer. He was usually so good with words…

"Yah.. yah know? You're kindah cute…" He slurred, poking his nose "Yer eyes are… real pretty. Like… _whoa_. Naww… don' bliiink. Lookitme. Here I'll… I'll lookit 'em."

Butch crawled up the hustler's chest (which ne noted somewhere in his memory that was actually broad and strong under his fingers…) and attempted to force his gaze. The other teen started to snicker and Butch whined for him to stop and 'lookit' him. He did, after a fit of giggles, and stayed put while Butch inspected his eyes. To his credit, they were a pretty gray-blue color, almost like ice. It was _awesome_. He tried to get closer (sometimes people had these weird flecks in their eyes and they could change color and that was equally as awesome), and looked in deeper.

Butch slipped and broke his fall on the hustler's lips.

He slipped. He actually, legitimately slipped while trying to balance his weight equally on Francis' chest and his couch. He didn't factor in the fact that coats move easier than shirts, and the flap of coat he was resting his hand on slipped out from under him. He fell, his face dropping suddenly onto Francis', hitting with more force than most people would have liked in their awkward, drunken kisses.

The idea was almost absurd enough to make them both start laughing as hard as they were before, but the sudden-ness of the situation (and the slight pain it caused), stunned both boys into silence. Butch blinked a little, staring at the grey-blue eyes he found really rather fascinating. He hadn't found it in him to move quite yet. Besides, Francis was looking right back at him. He hadn't shoved him off yet, or started asking what the hell he was thinking. All the same, this was weird, even if he was kinda tipsy, and he started to lift himself up.

Francis stopped him.

"No…" he whispered, "Dun… don' stop…"

"Buh… uhm…"

Francis stopped any further attempts for explanation or excuses by leaning up. They brushed mouths again, and Butch figured if he was going to be homophobic or overreact, he would have done it by now. So he went with it. Was it the best decision? Nope. But it felt good. Feeling good was the main goal of every drunk, and Butch was no exception. Neither was Francis, apparently, and he had some idea of what he was doing. Butch followed his lead, mimicking to the best of his drunken ability.

This felt… nice. Very nice. Very, very nice. Francis liked this. Butch felt good above him like this. He didn't know what he was doing, but he was learning rather quickly. He was making quite a bit of noise, but it didn't matter. Francis was a good teacher. He smiled a little at Butch's attempt to improvise (a little nip- a good touch but it was a bit too hard for his liking), and guided him until he remembered breathing was a necessary function.

"Good?" The hustler rasped, half-smiling when he broke for air.

"Uhn…" Butch grunted, pulling his mouth up again.

Francis smirked, drawing him in. Time to introduce hands. He tried his back first, and Butch made a small noise he wasn't able to identify. The hustler explored a few more spots, like his side (he laughed there) and his neck (touching his scars made him actually break the kiss to moan and then promptly kiss him in a much harder, sloppier fashion). He made a few notes he knew he wouldn't remember, but enjoyed it all the same. The only real problem he came across was trying to slip his hands up under the shirt. Butch didn't take that well (he bit him), and he stopped. Butch let him do anything else. He even got away with a liberal groping of his ass, though Butch made a weird enough noise that he decided not to try it again. The other male copied him, or at least tried to. The storyteller mostly settled on cradling his head in his hands and gripping the short brown hair in his fingers.

Thankfully, no one was home to bother either of them during their slightly awkward makeout session. No one bothered them afterward either. Francis was first to slip off, passing out with a soft sigh and his grip still wrapped around Butch's shoulders. Butch followed suit not long after, watching the hustler's head lull back with a sleepy sigh. He was a little disappointed that he stopped. Whatever he was doing, it had felt good, and now it stopped. He whined a little, but ultimately remembered booze made him very tired. So he rested his head on the chest under him and listened for a heartbeat. It was still there, and it was very, very constant and warm-sounding and it put him to sleep easier and a lot better than he could ever really remember sleeping.

But that was probably just the booze.

O/////O

Joey facepalmed.

Half his beer was gone!

Oh, and his little brother was passed out on top of some strange dude he'd never seen before. But, eh, that wasn't a huge surprise. He always suspected Butch was… not completely straight. Oh sure, he tried chicks a few times and always seemed to charm the hell out of his girlfriends. But come on! Who the _hell_ gets so traumatized by a boy and a girl kissing that it turns their hair white? Joey shook his head and frowned. Now, how to humiliate and them most while simultaneously getting revenge for drinking his beer?

He had a few options.

He could snap a few photos and then hide them in strategically placed areas to cause maximum discomfort and probably cause Butch to be his slave forever. Or he could turn on all the lights really fast and then laugh while the hangovers make them scream. He could have the same effect and not blind himself by cranking the stereo. He could even do all of the above and blackmail them into getting is room back _and_ having TWO personal slaves.

He could do all manner of nasty, evil things to them… but it turns out he thought too long. Butch and the other guy began to stir, so all he could do was cross his arms and stand there with a smug, all knowing I-am-SO-telling look on his face. He just waited, and eventually Butch opened his bleary eyes and got up, confused. He didn't seem to realize he was using another living body for support, or care too much. He looked around, barely noticing the groaning support he was using. Finally, his squinty, unfocused eyes settled on the Joeys in front of him.

He shot up a little suddenly, slipping on the chest of the guy he had been laying on. He didn't face plant, and actually managed to get to his feet. That was a big feat. He staggered forward, looking him right in the eye and slurred something akin to 'what the hell are you doing here?' The ensuing silence was deafening. For a drunken guy, Butch could sure glare and still seem intimidating.

"You drank my beer." Joey growled, staring him down.

"Finders keepers!" Butch snarled

What followed was the stereotypical older versus younger sibling shouting match. Butch may have been at a disadvantage because of his headache, but he covered it well using creative and frankly hair-brained arguments. The playing field was about even. So, naturally he diverted into humiliation territory, as was per the code of big brothers, when he noticed the other dude wake up and sit up and look like he was about to throw up.

"Oh yeah? I can see you dinking my beer, but shacking up with some random dude? That ain't normal." That stunned them both into silence, which Joey promptly took advantage of to ask: "So… did you guys fuck or what?"

Butch would have screamed and tackled him down if his head wasn't spinning and he any full-impact motion would cause him to spew. Joey snickered. Butch shook his head violently and sputtered excuses and negations. The guy on the couch just looked pale and kind of detached. He must have a hell of a headache.

Joey eventually waved off all of Butch babbling and caught him in a headlock, laying out a few demands. Butch was to pay off his lost booze wages, let him have reign of the basement for two days, and a standard twenty bucks cover charge for keeping his mouth shut. Butch agreed, and Joey dropped him. His big brother duties accomplished for the day, he left the room and the two hung over teens alone in the dark.

O/////O

Butch trudged over to the couch and plopped down, rubbing his temples. It took him a few minutes to get up, but the blissful darkness made it easier. The hustler groaned, his eyes still shut. For a while they sat in an awkward and yet oddly comfortable silence, trying to quell their respective headaches and various other symptoms of hangovers.

"You remember anything?" Hustler whispered cautiously after a few moments.

"Barely."

"…Probably better that way."

"Probably." A pause. "Asprin?"

"Sure. You have a spare case?"

"I got some."

A glass of water and a few tablets later, the sprawled out over the couch. Their knees were touching, but even though they both felt it and knew it was happening, neither one found it in them to move. It wasn't like they were on top of each other. And that time before was just an accident. They got drunk. It didn't mean anything.

Some time later they played rock-paper-scissors to see who would get up and try turning on the light. Butch lost and accused the hustler of cheating. HK kicked him off the couch in response. Butch crawled over to his lowest watt lamp and flicked it on, hissing violently when the light half-flooded the room. Hustler had his eyes covered. Butch sneered at him and called him an asshole before rejoining him on the couch.

"You look like hell." The hustler muttered, peeking out from under a heavy sleeve.

"Better than death warmed over."

"That's what I look like, then?"

"Yep."

"…you have a hickey."

"You too."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"That blows."

"At least you have a collar."

"Good point. Want some makeup?"

"Want I should smack you?" Butch snapped.

Another awkward-but-okay silence followed when Francis couldn't think of something in response to that. The two contemplated their 'injuries' and how to explain them. Butch was already thinking of a story and Hustler was fixing his coat. Again their legs were touching, but neither really cared. Their headaches were beginning to subside, but neither wanted t risk talking or moving. As a result, they lay there for quite a long time, half-enjoying each other's company. The other half was trying to quell any dizziness or bouts of nausea that was still there.

"I should go…" Hustler muttered, looking over at Butch.

"No one is stopping you."

"I'm stopping me."

"Still woozy?"

"A little…"

"I'm not kicking you out, either. Take your time."

"Thanks."

"… You think we fucked?" Butch asked randomly, finally facing him. The other was quiet for a moment, but then he ended up shaking his head in the negative. It didn't hurt anywhere, and they were both fully clothed. No blood, either. Eh. Highly unlikely, anyway. If they did, then neither could remember, then how good could it have been?

The hustler left a few rounds of banter later, his head hurting a little but otherwise fine. He decided not to let Butch know he might have had some odd recollection of a slip and a fall and an accidental… No, that was crazy. Butch and his crazy vibes, messing with his head. He kind of hoped he'd remember the business proposal he was pretty sure he laid out.

He'd talk to him on Monday. Life could wait until then.


	2. Scars

**More product placement for the masses!**  
**Just a few notes : This contains fluff and angst and general dickery on my behalf. Also lots of cursing. **  
**Admittedly I took liberties with this one, and therefore they are OOC if one is a purist to the show. I've aged them and done terrible things to Butch and generally angsted the hell out of it. If that's not okay with you, then please do skip over this. It will only get more messed up from here.  
**  
**Enjoy**

* * *

It was a slow day, a rainy day. Unlike Third Street School the children were given free reign of the school so long as they didn't break anything or cause too much trouble. It kept the majority of the student body quiet and out of each other's hair, each clique getting it section with a few nomads traveling about the decided territories. The system soothed the faculty (no uproars or constant groaning) and the kids (no cabin fever or fear of another Rainstorm of '89).

The Hustler, currently residing in his basement kingdom, crossed his legs and thought, smiling just a little to himself while he counted his money. Funny he should think of an old storm like that, a popular story of one storyteller. Heh, he was probably off doing his own little thing – telling lies and scaring the wits out of children who wished to be gluttons for punishment. HK had to admit, even though he barely believed a word out of Butch's mouth that his stories were intriguing interesting, and were actually pretty popular.

All the more reason for Hustler to cash in on this goldmine before someone else did.

Sure, he tried before, with blurry and nondescript results. He was vaguely sure something happened, but what exactly he had no idea. Apparently it hadn't been fruitful, for Butch was still generally avoiding him, and no increase in his sales. He had tried the direct approach, and since that had failed he needed to try other methods.

But what would work on Butch?

Thinking about it now, considering Butch's… odd character. The idea would have to be as strange and unusual as he was, or it would inevitably fail. He could try-

Wait.

Why was he even _able_ to think this freely? Shouldn't he be waiting on people? He cursed himself of being so careless. It was raining, that doesn't mean he could just forget about his job, even if it was on ways to improve it.

But a quick check of his surroundings affirmed the he was quite alone with his thought.

This confused him. He was sure he and Fingers had staked out their terf and informed the people accordingly. He was sure he'd had customers this morning, and that it was still free period. He had his stock, he'd even recently _re_stocked. What was the problem?

Hustler gave it a few more minutes, checking his watch every few seconds. When no one came (and HK felt like he was going to end up breaking something in frustration), he scaled the stairs and shouldered the door open.

The kid on the other side screamed and flung himself into the opposite row of lockers. Hustler raised a brow and the kid flushed, dusting himself off and clutching is heart like he was suffering a heart attack.

"Dude, don't DO that." He said, shaking his head. "Wh-What were you doing down there?"  
"My job." He replied, holding the door open "We're still open if you wanna come down."  
"Go… go down? _There_? Are you nuts?! You gotta be kiddin!"  
"No… I'm perfectly serious. Why? Is the basement haunted or something?"  
"You mean you haven't heard the stories?"

Oh, Butch was a dead man.

O///////O

Butch was angry. That much could be certain.

Francis gingerly touched his side, right where a fist had connected as it flew from the shadows. Butch on the other end snarled and seemed to foam at the mouth, eyes dark like coal and just as searing. The hustler counted with a bored expression and a sigh.

"What's the matter, Butchy boy?" He asked, tilting his head "Something I said?"  
"You know damn well what you did you fuckin' bastard!"  
"I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about."

Another fist flew out of the dark, this time glancing off his chin. It was immediately sidetracked into the concrete nearby, forcing a howl of pain out of Butch and another fist into the hustler's torso. Francis grunted, twisted the other boy around, and pinned him until he was numbed enough to remain still. Hustler backed off and waited, knowing that in some small way that the attack wasn't exactly unwarranted. Was it his fault that, as a reputable salesman, he could have a rumor spread as quickly and effectively as some shadow sulking storyteller? It served him right for damaging his business so inconsiderately.

"Oh, Butchy, are you upset? What ever for?"  
"Quit calling me Butchy, Francine!"  
"What did you call me?" He rasped quietly, looking him dead in the eye  
"What's the matter? You don't like Francine? Oh- okay. Lets try Fran. Ah! I like that. How about you, Franny? Oh! There's another."  
"What the hell is your problem?"  
"You ruined my fucking story you idiot! This is my thing! How would you like it if I ran up every time you tried to sell something to someone and told them it was shitty?"

Butch snorted and slugged him in a stomach, which Hustler countered by slamming him into the wall. They both hesitated, and Butch took that chance to slip away. Hustler didn't follow him, but he growled and snorted in his general direction. Butch had overreacted, Francis decided. It was just a stupid story about some scars he had on his neck – something about werewolves and a graveyard or something equally stupid and foolish that ended with a couple of scratches below his ear.

He would not lose this easy. It would take a hell of a lot more than a threat and a punch to the stomach to get him to stop hounding him. He ruined his business – he wasn't going to get off that easy. Not if it meant tracking him down and making him pay up for the lost wages.

But that came later. Francis coughed and spat on the ground, turning on his heel and heading of to third period.

O///////O

"You guys got five minutes before your grade gets knocked down!" Coach Miller called.

The locker room groaned collectively and changed, talking and laughing and teasing. The hustler was slow in moving. He debated just blowing the while thing off - this way he could avoid showing off his bruises and cool his temper a bit before he had to deal with anyone else today. It was bad enough his business was behind, even worse that Butch was angry and he'd more than likely never get that deal he had been angling on. He shoved his locker shut harder than it needed to be, frowning to himself. Why couldn't he seem to best the damned phantom? It was like every time he got close, he'd just slip right through his fingers. It drove him nuts! It was the only thing he could dwell on, the one thing he could focus on-

Speaking of focus…

Hustler's head shot up, thoughts derailed, watching a streak of white hair bob and weave and worm its way through the crowd, right into the bathroom. He blinked – he was still in his regular clothes, so why did Butch feel the need to change in the bathroom? Self conscious? – No, Butch didn't seem like the type. But he'd never seen Butch change once. The thought passed that maybe Butch was hiding something from him, that maybe he was not exactly a he… but that was absurd. Hustler shook his head and grabbed his clothes, hell bent on cornering the storyteller if it was him, or just change in privacy if it wasn't.

As luck would have it, Francis did see Butch slink into the adjoined bathroom. Butch had disappeared into one of the stalls, a bundle of clothing under his arm. At present (as Hustler was entering the room) Butch had just gotten his shirt off and was trying to find the right hole to fit his head through. He leaned against the stall door, perhaps too heavily, since the old latch wasn't what it used to be.

As luck would have it, just as Francis stepped in, shutting the door behind him, the latch gave way and the door collapsed under Butch's weight, sending the storyteller flailing backwards until he could flail no more, flat on his back with the wind knocked out of him.

Francis looked down at Butch, who looked up at him, wide eyed and quiet. It was eerie quiet- the kind without breathing but not the silent kind- the florescent lights were too busy buzzing to give them a moment of peace. Butch seemed frozen in place, there on his back, his shirt clutched in his hand. Without thinking, Francis looked the boy over. Nothing to hide, not what he was thinking, anyway. But there was something else. Thin pink lines across his stomach, stretching from the uppermost point on his left to his right side.

Was this what Butch was hiding? How did he get them? Why did he have such severe (or what looked to be severe at one point) scars at such a young age? Why hadn't he said anything? Was he embarrassed by them? Was that why he changed in here? How long ago did he get them? Did he have a story for them like the ones on his neck?

"I… I gotta go." Butch muttered. He doubled over himself and tugged his shirt on, and repeated it every time Francs tried to open his mouth. By the time he was up on his feet again his face was bright red. He ran off before Hustler could so much as ask himself what the hell just happened.

Not that it would keep him from finding out eventually.

O///////O

Francis sought the boy out again, though this time it was considerably harder to do so. HK thought every once in a while that he was being a little stalker-like, but it passed, replaced with a nagging want (need?) to know what had happened to him to disfigure him so? On second thought, it wasn't even a disfigurement. Just some scars. Terrible scars, yes, but why? Who did it – or what? Would he even tell him the truth? Butch did have a penchant for lying that was almost as steadfast as he penchant for smok-

Smoking?

Francis paused, looking around. He smelt that sour smoke drifting around in the shadows. The hustler followed it without thinking, and without fail the wispy trial lead him right to Butch.

He looked like hell- and that was putting it mildly. Smoke poured from his nose and mouth and he paced, holding his stomach like he would throw up any moment. He was muttering to himself, chewing on the stub of his cigarette. Hustler was concerned, if only for a moment. Usually Butch bounced back from embarrassing situations pretty quickly. Perhaps this scar thing went deeper than he wanted to admit. Then again, he seemed pretty damn willing to leave even before he could ask a question.

"Butch?" He ventured cautiously. He backed up quick, seeing Butch spin and flail wildly, looking like some rabid creature cornered in an alley.  
"What. What do you want go away!" He snapped all at once. Francis approached anyway.  
"What happened to you?"  
"No!"  
"Butch-"  
"NO! No don't ask don't talk to me just leave me alone!"  
"Butch, I'm not just going to walk away- who scarre-"  
"NO!"

The sudden screech made the silence that followed it deafening. Hustler put his hands in his pockets, watching Butch warily. The storyteller shivered and stooped over, trying to puff at the damaged and used up cigarette. It took him a few minutes for it to click that the cig was burned out and he shivered again, clutching at his sides, itching and turning in place. Francis wondered (or was it that he knew): was this the image of a person falling apart piece by piece.

"Butch." He said softly, taking a step closer "Please."  
"Shit… shit after all… after all this time… keeping it quiet. Being so fucking careful… shit and… and now… oh fuck you!"

Butch growled or roared or made some sort of angry noise and hit the wall hard enough to make Francis flinch. Broken spirit and broken fingers- two things he'd rather not deal with. But he'd gotten himself into this, so he was going to see it through.

"Tell me about it."  
"Fuck off!"  
"No. Tell me."

Again Butch made that noise, pulling at his hair and pacing. It was like watching a cage animal. A rabid caged animal. Hustler didn't want to get any closer, but he could prod it from here. Maybe it would pass out from lunacy.

Before he could though, Butch stopped pacing. He stared at Francis with red, wet eyes and seems to snarl and bristle up. Then he choked, coughed, looked down and away and began to shake. His hand balled into fists and he breathed through his teeth. Francis watched him pace, look up, and then pace again He punched the wall again and froze there, shaking more violently. He gasped for air, throwing glances at him, fighting with himself but thankfully making no move for him. At this rate, Butch would bite and might actually do some decent damage. It didn't deter him.

"Tell me." He said, no longer asking. Butch flinched but stared and kept silent "Tell me, Butch. What. Happened."  
"You want to know what happened so fucking bad THEN LOOK!" Butch screamed.

He tore at his shirt, franticly trying to rip it off his body. However, it happened that the shirt got tangled around his arm while he was struggling with it and there it stayed knotted, dangling like a snake's shed skin. Butch shivered violently, breathing hard and choking a little, trying to keep from crying. Francis stared at him, eyes trained on the scars he had tried so hard to hide.

"You wanna know so bad?" Butch hiccupped, staggering toward him "I'll tell yah. I'll fucking tell you." Francis was still staring at his middle, and Butch was shaking hard and damned near collapsing.

"It happened a while ago. Unlucky thirteen. I was… My parents were gone for the weekend, and my brother was in high school so he had… people over. I bein' a good kid- stayin' outta his way. He said he's bust up my arm if I spied on him again, so I was bein' good. But… But I forgot my game downstairs."

He took a few moments, taking a few breaths. Francis was still looking right at his scars, eyes flicking up to glance at him. Every time the grey things locked with his Butch felt his breath catch and he just wanted to stop and have this be forgotten. But he pressed on. Something inside him just kept his mouth moving.

"I...went down to get it. I ran into this guy. I'd… I'd never seen him before but I can't _un_see him. Never again I… I wanted to go upstairs but he… Fuck, I'll never forget the way he _looked_ at me. Up and down like… like … he called me princess. Said… said he liked tomboys."

Butch choked on his words trying to catch himself before he turned into a bawling mess. He didn't realize it was already too late. He coughed, sniffed, and pressed on. He couldn't bring himself to look up or talk any louder than a strained whisper.

"I tried… I put up the best damned fight I could be he… he was too big. He got my shirt off an… and he fuckin' smiled and told me I'd fill out and he _touched_ me everywhere. I dun even know why he thought- fuck he thought I was… he figured out he was wrong. Heh… he fucking figured it out when he groped me and felt… he wasn't too happy to figure it out neither. He flipped a fucking shit and he… he screamed and called me a slut and a faggot and shoved me down inta a pile of… beer bottles I guess. I heard a crash and… It felt like something was bein' split open. By the time I got to the bathroom I… I was bleedin' everywhere. I couldn't get it to stop… slept in the bathtub and hid from everyone til I could move without breaking the scabs…"

Butch fell to his knees, the shirt finally falling off his arm. He bent around himself, sucking in gasps of air or at least trying to. He'd forgotten how much it hurt – he was ripped apart and torn up. He felt sick all over again, just wanted to crawl into the nearest dark spot and stay there forever or at least until it stopped. He'd never told anyone. No one else knew. It wasn't like they would just automatically assume he was the victim and even if he was he was… he'd never be able to stand in the same room as that guy ever again without dissolving to tears and begging him not to hurt him again. Butch nearly wretched, sobbing quietly and holding his stomach. He was just a liar anyway. He had a fucking reputation for it. Butch and his crazy stories. Who the hell would believe –

"I believe you."

Butch stopped, for a moment. He slowly lifted his head, eyes trailing up the denim legs that were now much closer, up the grey trench coat and to the grey swathed arm ending in a hand that was out offering to help him up. Butch blinked and sniffed wetly.

"What?"  
"I said I believe you. Come on. I'll take you home."

Butch gaped at him. He sniffed again and rubbed his eyes, one arm still banded over his scarred stomach. He… he didn't want to be seen. He grabbed up his shirt and covered himself, trying to will himself to stand or at least shrug it off with a no thank you. Francis wasn't going to take that. He let Butch pull the shirt over his head and then lifted him off the floor, guiding him to his car. Butch didn't struggle or resist – he didn't have the will to.

All he could think about was how good it felt that someone besides him knew…

O/////////O

It was a struggle once Butch was in the mansion. He gaped quietly at first, and all the questions Francis had expected from the normally talkative boy were absent. It bothered him.

Trying to get him to take the shirt off again turned out to be a bigger obstacle than the hustler thought. He figured once was enough, the gates would break and he would willingly show. But no – Butch seemed doubly shy now that they were alone in the massive house. It made some sort of twisted sense, and Francis pitied him for it. He eventually coaxed it off; getting a first aid kit just to prove his point was in medical interest. Even then the storyteller squirmed uncomfortably and whimpered, reluctant to move his hands.

Kneeling, Francis examined the scars. Butch was moving around too much for him to get that good of a look, but it was better now that there wasn't harsh florescent light or shadows. The scars looked deep, noticeable, and some part of Francis wanted to say shiny. There seemed to be little flecks, but it was probably Butch writhing around uncomfortably. He reached out to touch them and Butch swatted at him, but under his fingers they didn't feel so bad. It wasn't as smooth as the rest of him, a bit rougher and gnarled. He pulled his hand away and Butch was quick to cover himself up.

"So… what happened exactly."  
"I t-told you already."  
"I couldn't hear you, not completely."

Butch sighed and relayed the story again, adding a few details that either the hustler had missed or Butch had just glanced over. He flushed and stammered, but Francis merely sat and listened, nodding every once in a while. He didn't say anything, though. He didn't think anything he was currently willing to add would help the situation – especially since all he could mange to think was 'Holy shit. That's fucking awful.' Regardless of his thoughts and the fact there was absolutely no reason to do so, He wrapped up Butch's old wound and let him put his shirt back on. The storyteller seemed to appreciate it and let him do as he pleased, looking more tired than anything else.

"You know…" Francis started "I'm not good at keeping secrets." Butch looked up at him, eyes as wide as they could mange as tired they were "I listened to your story. I'll keep it quiet as long as you do a lil somethin' for me."  
"You… you can't" He whimpered, sounding broken and scared enough to almost make Francis think over the words that seems to jump right out of his throat. "No… it's not right."  
"I never said it was. It's not gonna be hard – not for you, anyway. Just a little… product placement. I trust you know how that works."  
"You bastard." Butch snarled, screwing his face up into as rage-filled of an expression as his fatigued self could manage. It was gone a moment later, replaced with closed eyes and a defeated sigh "What… do I have to do?"  
"Throw in a few disclaimers, a few knocks to my competition and a few boosts to me. In return, I won't tell a soul what you hide under your shirt. Deal?"  
"You're a dick…" Butch muttered after a moment, his arms wrapped around his middle "A dick whore cock sucking son of a bitch. I hate you."  
"I know." Francis replied, perfectly okay with it. "I don't ask much, remember. I could do so much worse. It's a compromise."  
"Why?"  
"I have no idea. Pity, perhaps."  
"Dickwad."

Butch slouched on the couch and shut his eyes, breathing deeply. He was far too exhausted to deal with any of this. He was just tired, but he'd never be able to sleep. He was too worried. Could the hustler be trusted? Surely, all it would take were a few stories – but not too good. He'd get trapped in that and burn out and then he'd… he'd be ruined.

Butch sighed and opened his eyes. Francis was standing in front of him, studying him. Butch hugged himself a little tighter, swallowing thickly. He didn't now why he was so nervous – he already knew everything because he couldn't keep his fucking mouth shut. He shut his eyes again and loosened up. No sense hiding it now… At least he hadn't asked for… for something more… Butch coughed, masking what probably would have been a whimper if he had let it alone.

Francis watched, feeling this weird attachment to the other boy. He supposed it wasn't too odd- Butch had shared with him his deepest secret. That had to account for something even if it was more therapist-patient relationship than that of a… friendship? Perhaps. They were friends, weren't they? To some degree, yes, but even then it was debatable. Francis supposed that this little incident meant they had no choice but to follow this 'friendship' and see if it came to anything. At least he was getting some good product placement out of it.

Looking at Butch now, deflated and exhausted, utterly spent – yes, he did feel bad. No one should have to go through that, no question. He felt bad for the boy – and he'd never tell anyone. He'd never tell him he wouldn't tell – that would be losing a deal (and maybe a few teeth)- but he'd never let it out. The guy had already been through enough and clearly suffered in ways he recognized and didn't recognize. Something like this wasn't easy to shrug off, he guessed. He did feel pity. He did feel sympathy.

And he felt himself lean forward and kiss Butch's brow.

He also felt the sudden punch to his gut.

Francis shook his head and coughed, stepping back and banding his arm around his own stomach. Butch was flushed and wide-eyed, ready to apologize. Hustler waved it off before he could say anything and sat beside him. They both sat in silence, half holding their middles and breathing a little heavy.

"Can I stay here tonight?" Butch asked quietly.  
"Sure."

* * *

**Thanks for reading :)**


	3. Philanthropy

**Again with this crap? Oh yeah. There's like 80 more brace yourselves. **  
**Friendshipy plot building blah blah blah. There is cursing but nothing more than the previous chapter.**  
**There is a mention of someone (an OC hustler, to be exact) by the name of Tammy. She won't show up for a while. She's also the invention of a friend of mine. Don't worry too much about her. **

**Enjoy**  


* * *

It had been about a month since the… incident.

Hustler, though he did have the tendency to drive a hard bargain that only got worse as he got older, was rather lax when it came to his one and only employee. Butch's stories had been working very, very well. His profits had nearly doubled in one month alone, and for that he'd admit to taking a bit of a liking to the compulsive liar. In fact, it was a bit more of a liking than he was familiar with. Sure, he liked his other business contacts just fine. But they never really felt like this. Then again he didn't really know closely guarded secrets involving scars and sexual abuse about any of his contacts, either. Not that he'd ever tell. Oh, he'd never tell. He was an ass at times but he wasn't _that_ bad about anything nearly as troubling. But, then again, Butch was too valuable to him to tell him anything otherwise.

He, at a loss for any other thing to identify this relation by, entertained the thought more often than once that Butch was an actual _friend_.

It was a little unusual, but not for reasons that he thought would be normal. Sure, he could brush it off as something of taste. Butch was nothing like him. Not the slightest bit. He was crass and rude, a liar and a conman worse than he ever had been. He smoked like a chimney and lived to scare the hell out of anyone who dared enter his territory. He was standoffish, smug, quiet and cunning,

But that wasn't the reason.

No, it was more that Francis had never really _had_ a friend. He'd had contacts, acquaintances, partners (both in business and pleasure), and so on. But he'd never had a real friend. Not like Butch, anyway. The closest he'd come to this thing he had with Butch was Fingers (and Tammy – but she was a class all her own). They were opposites attracting and forming a bond like two magnets. It was odd how this worked. He wasn't sure that he felt this way during any other business partnership, though that could be blamed on the nature of the information passed between them. Their… arrangement had been working out well so far, Francis reflected, so he shouldn't be having any real problem with this.

Except Butch was definitely trying to scam him.

"What's the deal, Butch?" the hustler drawled, stowing away his money carefully.  
"I just told ya. I need another one of those permission slip thingys."  
"Why?"  
"'Cause I lost mine."  
"No, I mean why should I just _give_ one to you?" He asked, crossing his arms  
"I dunno- I figured since I'm doing half your job I'd get a break or two." Butch drawled, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly all while glaring daggers at him.  
"You're not doing _my_ job. You're doing _your_ job. It was our deal, remember?"

Butch kept him held in a steady gaze, his face a cross between anger and indifference. He did care, but at the same time he didn't. But he wouldn't just let it go. Not without a fight he wouldn't. That wouldn't be his style. Far be it from to invoke the wrath of the fearsome storyteller, but backing down wasn't the hustler's style either.

"Look, I just need the slip. Can't you cut me some slack?"  
"No."  
"What the hell why not?"  
"_Because_, Butch, my good man, if I start treating you special, then I have to give _everyone _a special little freebie on something. And that's how you go out of business." He slid his arm around the reluctant shoulders and walked him a few paces forward "Now, if there's nothing else I can do for you-"  
"At least lemme explain!" Butch cried, "Cut me a deal, then."

This made the hustler pause. It wasn't against anything in him to turn down a deal, but with Butch he was wary. Butch could be tricky; he could be angry and rather brutal from what he heard whispered around the corners and alleyways. Still, something about it made the hustler sit back and think for a minute. Whatever Butch came up with, it surely wouldn't be boring.

"I'm listening."  
"Lemme tell you what happened."  
"Oh, here we go-"  
"No! Really- I'll tell you what happened and then you can decide to take pity on the poor soul that is me. Okay? Do we have a deal?"

Francis rubbed his chin and eyed the outstretched hand, glancing up to the desperate face. At the worst, it'd give him a couple of minutes of entertainment. At best, he'd have a good point and he'd be doing a friend a favor. Either way, this was not normal for him, but rather than be struck by the oddness of him bending to Butch he was more struck by how abnormal he found a normal friendly exchange. Surely there must be something wrong here that he was so hesitant. But, then again…

"Alright, I'll bite." He murmured, taking the other male's hand in a firm shake "But on one condition."  
"Whazzat?"  
"You gotta tell the truth."

Butch blinked, but otherwise gave no indication of the panic inside his head. How was he supposed to tell him what happened? The last time he told the guy sensitive information he ended up being a friggen lackey. Granted, being jumped and mugged was much less humiliating than nearly being raped but it was _still_ humiliating. It was bad enough he was kinda skinny he didn't need Franny thinking he couldn't hold his own. Not that they were just picking on him for the hell of it; they weren't even after the slip- mostly his cigs, but the slip had gotten away and he was totally screwed now. It wasn't just that this tip was supposed to be friggen awesome – it was the principle of the thing… and, he really wanted to get out of math class just this once. Francis, though, clasped his hand so firmly he couldn't fight his way out of the situation now. Alright. No problem. He could do this.

But before he could stop himself he launched into a tale involving witches and wits and crossing a bridge that ultimately sounded really, really good but also had Francis shaking his head slowly and tsking by the end of it. He knew he was sunk, but it was worth a shot.

"So whatdya say?"  
"I say you've got some serious screws loose."  
"W-Wait, Franny! C'mon!"  
"One, don't call me Franny." The hustler growled, turning on his heel "Two, bother me when you got cash."  
"But-"  
"Later."

O///////O

In his wandering, Francis had time to think. Usually it would be used to count money, reflect on sales, think f who he needed to call, place orders, record some talk he'd overheard, decide on what he needed more of, et cetera. Business stuff. Familiar stuff.

But this time he was too busy feeling guilty.

Something about how Butch stared at him while he left was irritating him. It was the same mixed feeling of pity and something else churning in his gut that he felt when Butch spilled the story about his scars. Truth be told, he felt kind of like an asshole. He wasn't one – not really. He had a business to run was all. Start cutting Butch some slack and everyone would be looking for handouts left and right. He'd be ruined because he went soft. Like hell he was going to let that happen. He'd worked way to hard to etch his name up in the high ranks. He was not going to relent. No way, no how.

But he'd looked so upset…

Francis grunted at himself and made a few quick turns, deciding to skip the stop he was going to make to Hustler HQ. He needed time alone to think. Just a little while. Dammit, ever since Butch came waltzing on into his life everything had become so damn complicated. Francis had to sit and think more often than ever and while he wasn't opposed to working his brain every once in a while this was pushing it. Of all the times for him to grow a damned conscious. Why did he let Butch command s much of him like this? It just wasn't fair.

"Hey, pass me some 'o that."

The hustler paused and looked up. He'd wandered far enough off the beaten path, but not so far as to be completely lost. He knew he didn't know those voices. They were a bit too hick for him to be in the pleasant side of town. With a short grimace he realized he'd skirted his neighborhood and was floating around somewhere near the warehouses. He knew he was probably in trouble here if he stayed much longer- but it was still light out and the voices sounded around his age. If need be, he could take them. Not that he would. He was going to leave.

Right after he overheard a few things.

"These is some good cigs."  
"Yep."  
"Good thing that faggy kid came walkin by. I was outta cash."  
"What the fuck was up wit 'im? He got dis weird hair shit goin on."  
"I think he's dat kid who tells dem stories."  
"No shit?"  
"Yeah – he zat lil' bastard dat tells dem spook stories. In my lil' brudder's grade I tink."  
"He ain't gonna tell no one 'bout dis, izzy?"  
"Naw."  
"How'dya know?"  
"You go runnin 'roud telling people when yah get the snot kicked outta yah?"  
"Fuck naw."  
"See? 'E ain't gonna tell nobody no how. 'E can't tell da truth. Probably tell someone a troll fucked 'im up or some shit."

Something boiled in the hustler's blood then. He found his hand clenching into a fist, his teeth pressing together in what he knew was a scowl. He got that same feeling in his gut when he thought he was being cheated or someone was stealing from him. This was a feeling the hustler did not like, and it, more often than not, resulted in his knuckles being sore and someone trying very, very hard to stop blood flow.

Curious.

Francis looked at his clenched hand and moved his jaw to unlock it. How strange. He wasn't being cheated. He'd just happen to overhear one of his – well, his only employee had been cheated. Surely is shouldn't affect him like this. But then again…

If Francis took this… friendship idea he'd been toying with, then he had reason to be pissed off. Butch was his friend. _His_ friend. No one was supposed to mess with things Hustler considered his.

Figuring he'd eavesdropped long enough, Francis unclenched his fist (why did it keep _doing_ that?) and resisted the urge to go straighten out the two who disrespected him. It was better not to fight. He disliked having to clean blood off of his things. And besides, he had something more… pressing to take care of.

Now where would that storyteller be at this time of day?

O///////O

Butch could be very, very jittery when snuck up on, Francis noted.

The male in question had all but passed out on the expanse of grass, an unlit cigarette in his mouth and a smile keeping it there when Francis found him. When standing over him or gently calling his name a few times didn't work. The hustler decided Butch was a heavy sleeper, and as such he could just stick the replacement slip he'd managed to rustle up in his coat pocket and be off. But Butch seemed to be selective about when he felt like waking up, so the second Francis had loomed over his side and tried to slip the paper in, Butch rocketed up and skittered away.

Once Butch had caught his breath and he'd lit up a cigarette, he stared the other boy down. Francis, sitting on his knees, waited patiently. He watched Butch's eyes flicker between the paper and his own. It was slightly amusing.

"Why are you givin this to me?" Butch said finally, giving him his full attention.  
"What? Is it so hard to think I might have found it in me to… lighten up a little bit." Butch continued to stare "Alright – you guilted me into it. But don't go telling no one, you got that?"  
"Sure." Butch looked at the paper and smiled more "Does this mean I get a discount on cigs, too?"  
"Don't push it."  
"Okay, okay! Just checking it out. Don't jump down my throat or nothin."

The smile on his face was… oddly bewitching. For some reason the hustler found himself smiling as well. Butch read the paper a few more time, as if convincing himself it was the real deal. He only smiled wider when he convinced himself of its validity.

"You really did this for me."  
"Don't look too much inta this. We ain't goin steady or nothin. I just did you a favor."  
"I know. Yeah. I'm just gonna head home. It's gettin' late."  
"Sure."  
"See you tomorrow."  
"Don't forget about the –"  
"Don't worry. I gotcher back. See ya."

Butch hoisted himself to his feet and rolled his shoulder, taking a deep drag on his cigarette. He tossed the butt on the ground, stomped it out, and walked off. Francis shrugged and stood up, brushing himself off briefly. He'd get home and take care of a few things and then take a well-disserved rest.

"Hey Francis!" Butch suddenly called, his hands cupped around his mouth to catch his attention.  
"What?" The hustler shouted back.  
"Thanks!"

As Butch disappeared over the hill, dashing out of sight, Francis figured that maybe, just maybe this whole 'friendship' thing could work out.  


* * *

**Thanks for reading! Hope you've enjoyed the crack!**


	4. The Drama of Christine

**Haha I bet you thought there wasn't any more of this WELL YOU THOUGHT WRONG**

**I wasn't joking when I said there were like 80 of these. Hooray for useless crack pairings!**  
**This chapter is long. Very long. I probably should have split it up but pffft like anyone reads this anyway.**  
**I guess it's worth mentioning that HK seems OOC in this chapter as opposed to how I write him normally / as he appears in Recess as a 9 year old. Let's just chalk it up to wacky hormones.**

**Enjoy!**  


* * *

"Oh Buuuutch…" came a soft, melodic cry "Come out come out wherever thou art!"

The male in question snorted and spat on the ground. Stupid friggen Drama Club. He sunk into his alley as much as he could. Part of him really wished he still had his black coat. That way he could bend in more. He probably should try and find a more secure hiding place, but he was far too lazy. He puffed on his cigarette and looked at the sky. Wouldn't be too much longer now…

"Ah-hah!" that same pretty voice said, "We've finally found you!"

Butch eyed her with a rather bored expression. Timithia Tiswell. A tall, honey-blond, dingbat with the biggest goddamn blue eyes he'd ever seen fit on a human head. He would have considered her attractive (she had a nice enough rack.) if she wasn't batshit insane. Her real name was Tina Craig; Timithia Tiswell was just her 'stage name.' Butch snorted. Like a seventeen year old needed a stage name. He rolled his eyes as the rest of her lackeys fanned out and blocked his routes of escape. He cringed a little; he didn't like being cornered…

"I already told you jamokes, I'm not gonna be a chick in yer stupid play."

He breathed a particularly thick cloud of smog in Timithia's direction and flipped them off for good measure. She seemed unmoved. She smiled a pretty little smile at him and Butch wondered if it would be rude for him to suddenly make a run for it by pushing her into the opposite wall. It probably would be.

"Oh, but I have something no tobacco addict can resist!" she chirped. She produced a small bag out of nowhere. She reached in (and here Butch really hoped it wasn't going to be some sort of 'smoking gun' joke) and pulled out five or six palm-sized boxes. Butch blinked, nearly choking on his own smoke. Could it be?

"Are… are those mint cigs?" Butch asked, pushing off the wall and taking a few tentative steps forward. Holy crap! How did she have the money for that? Those things cost a friggen fortune, like fifteen bucks a singe _pack_. He reached out a little and she withdrew her hands and took a step (it was more of a flourish) back.

"Mm-hmmm!" He nodded and flipped her hair. "And that's not all! I've got chocolate, cherry, frost, even a coconut one!"  
"I don't like coconut."  
"ANYway, I've got like twenty packs here and they're all yours, Butch" He re-pouched the cigs and put a hand to her lips. Her cronies smiled "If! If you play the part of Christine…"

Butch smoked his normal flavored cig and looked at the ground, thinking carefully. The Drama Club stood waiting, Timithia at the head. He'd break. Everyone had his or her vice. When put up against it, every man fell to his knees. Her smile of triumph never broke the careful mask she wore as Butch raised his pretty face and smiled a little.

"…You've got yourself a deal, lady."

O/O

Francis, aka Hustler, grumbled and stalked back into the school. At least the front doors were open. He'd hate to waste even _more_ time trying to break into the building on account of a single slip up. Figures. He carried around that damn book from here to Kingdom Come and when he actually _needed_ it, where was it? In his damn locker. The salesman growled and stalked down the empty hallway, making a few quick turns before he got to his locker. He dialed in the combination angrily and yanked the door open, searching the tiny space with his eyes before he ducked down and picked up the troublesome book.

He slammed the locker door shut and stowed the text somewhere in his coat. He looked around the abandoned halls, his bad mood quelling into a calm one. He'd never seen the school so empty before. He shrugged his shoulders and turned to walk back the way he came. He figured he'd already wasted enough time that a throwing away a little more wouldn't kill him. He'd just grab something from one of the better soda machines and then he'd hop in his car and head home and try not to burn the stupid book that had caused him so much trouble.

If he remembered correctly, the best, cheapest machine was somewhere near the auditorium, in Drama Fag terf. Well, they had to be gone by now. Even if they weren't, he could outrun them or buy them off his back. He'd be quick. A few bucks and a button press. Get in, get out, no one gets hurt.

He checked his back, down both ends of the hall and stuffed the money into the slot, keeping a wary eye and ear out for a funny-looking costume or a wig or some weird dancer. He pressed the button, and the bottle clattered to the bottom of the machine. HK bent down to get it, and in that instant the door to the Drama Class flew open. He panicked and stuffed himself into the space beside the wall and the contraption. He heard voices. They sounded male. Maybe. He wasn't sure. He waited them out, but the door didn't close and the voices didn't stop. Hustler gulped and, against his better judgment, peeked around the wall to get a look at what was going on.

He gasped.

In front of him was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. She was… was perfect. Long, stunningly blood-red hair, exquisite fair skin, absolutely gorgeous face and the most bewitching dark eyes he'd ever laid eyes on. Hot _damn_! He gripped the wall and felt his face heat up. It was like time stopped. He nearly fell over, and he forgot how to breathe. Oh good sweet Mike she was… was…

Gone.

She had ducked back into the room and HK blinked himself back to reality. He slowly emerged from his hiding spot, still staring at the place where she had stood, hoping she'd materialize again and he could maybe keep his head long enough to talk to her. Oh God… he was in love. Completely and totally. There was no question about it. He would see her again and have her as his own forever and ever. She would haunt him until he did.

He walked out of the school in a daze, a smile on his face. He'd start asking questions first thing tomorrow.

Butch emerged from the room again. These people were fucking _gone_. He had made up some excuse that the room was too hot and he needed actual air. He stepped into the hall and thanked whoever was watching over him that all these rehearsals were _after_ school and no one saw him. Oh well. He sighed and padded over to the soda machine. He could at least get a root beer and then-

The cross-dresser paused, kneeling down to examine the slot. He tilted his head and picked up the not-yet opened drink. He looked around. Who would leave a perfectly good root beer out? He shrugged. Oh well. Free drink.

O/O

The hustler's search proved unfruitful. No one had heard of or even seen this chick. Not even the kids in the drama club (though they did say something about it reminding them about something they read of some such crap, he really hadn't paid much more attention after they said 'no'). He sighed. This was gonna be the death of him…

He slipped into the shadows Butch normally hung out in. He didn't feel like hustling. All he wanted was a name to go with the face. Then he'd be happy, even for a little while. He'd prefer to see her face over and over and over again, but despite his best efforts he had nary a single clue. He sighed and sat on the ground. This was seriously depressing. He waved a little when he heard Butch's boots crunch up to his side. It was only when Butch sat beside him that he bothered to really acknowledge he was there. His brain was occupied.

"Hey."  
"You looked bummed. Sup?"  
"It's-"

The hustler paused, debating on whether or not it would be a good idea to spill to someone like Butch. Sure, he was a nice enough guy, but how could he help? Would he be jealous of her? They were friends now – or at least he would like to think. It had been a few weeks since he went out on a limb and got that permission slip for him, and since then Butch had at least doubled his income with those stories of his. Aside from that – he had heard some horror stories of his own about friendships being destroyed through some bitch. This was different, he assured himself – this was true love and he would be with her forever if he could just /find/ her. He cleared his throat and Butch puffed away, waiting expectantly like a child waiting for a story. What could the harm be?

"I… met this girl."  
"A girl? Hey, congrats Franny!"  
"Stop calling me that."  
"Yeah yeah noise, noise. So what's she like? She go here? Another hustler pal of yours?"  
"No, no. It's… well… I _saw_ her yesterday… but before I could talk to her, she vanished. And no one knows who she is or even so much as her name!" He sighed and tapped his fingers on his arm.  
"Hey, I bet she's just new." Butch offered a sympathetic smile.  
"Yeah… that's probably it…"  
"So? Spill man. What she look like?"  
"She's absolutely beautiful, Butch" Hustler sighed wistfully and shut his eyes, a smile on his face. Butch smirked. He musta fallen real hard for this one. "I've never seen anyone like her. She got this long red hair and such a pretty face and the most fuckin amazing eyes I've _ever seen_. When I saw her… she had a long white dress and black necklace and _God_ what a body on her…"

Butch gaped at him. There was no way. No _fucking_ way. This wasn't possible.

"She sounds ah… real pretty." He started, trying to ignore the smile on his face "Where…. Where did you see her?"  
"By the auditorium. She came out of the Drama Club class thing. " He sighed again, a happy one, and Butch was ready to smash his face into a moving truck.

Fran had seen him. SEEN him dressed as a friggen chick! His blood was boiling hot enough he was sure he would explode. He bit his tongue, trying to keep from screaming in his face. He balled his hands squarely at his sides and willed himself to keep them there so he wouldn't start throwing had to be some elaborate joke to make fun of him. Stupid asshole. He glared at the hustler. Something inside him twisted (he wasn't sure if it was jealously or humiliation) and he coughed a little.

"Look, ah.." Francis lifted his head and smiled a little bashfully, his face turning pink "I… I know you don't really know people, but do you have any idea who she is or where she's from? Have you ever seen her?"

Butch blinked, taking in Franny's face and something inside him snapped and cracked and formed the most perfect reaction to get back at that jerk. He smiled a little and lit himself up a cig and seemed to think. Francis watched him, expectant and wide-eyed. Fine. If Franny wanted to keep up this little act to humiliate him, then he was gonna play it up too, dammit. Like hell he would be the butt of his sick joke. Pompous asshole.

"Long red hair, pretty face, nice bod…" he sat up and snapped his fingers. "You gotta mean Christine!"

To most people, the Hustler just smiled at the information. But Butch knew him better than that – that expression on HK's face was that of unbridled joy. It would have been missed by someone who didn't know the hustler that well, but Butch saw it and he instantly knew he made a mistake. Francis really _did_ think he saw some magical mystery perfect chick. Oh hell. Oh this was anything but good. Wasn't he normally able to pick out when he was lying?

"You… you know her!" He asked, his voice nearly cracking in anticipation.  
"Ah, well, actually… no." he winced a bit at the fallen face "I don't know her too well… but if I find anything out you'll be the first to know."  
"Thanks Butch. You got no idea what this means to me. I owe you big time."

HK seemed to have this unsettling habit of rebounding pretty fast. He smiled at Butch and threw his arm around his shoulders and hugged him a bit. Butch winced a little and backed up. Oh man, he had messed up big time. But he was in over his head now. There was no turning back. Once the hustler had separated himself with a friendly pat Butch nodded too him, puffing heavily on his cig. He felt like curling up into a ball and dying. He smiled at Francis, the sudden, alien feeling of guilt churning in his gut.

"What are friends for?"

O/O

Butch was screwed. Totally. Screwed. Franny had told him he'd be staying after school again to catch up with her and hopefully talk to her and maybe ask her out. He looked so damn happy. Butch kicked himself. He'd just set up the first real pal he had in years for a major fall. That kind of stunt definitely earned him a special torture pit in hell.

He leaned against the door and tried peeking out. No sign of Fran, but he was out there, somewhere, waiting for his mystery woman to appear and fill his life with joy and rainbows. Butch had never felt so bad. He chewed his lip and tried to think. Maybe… maybe he could pretend. He could lie. He was good at lying. It got him into trouble this time but he'd gotten out of bigger jams by lying more. He could throw the guy a bone. Say he –no, she- was a foreign exchange student and had a beau back home. Or that she was married. Or betrothed. Or had ten kids already. Butch winced and rubbed his face. But how should he _tell_ him? He didn't know how to imitate a girl, unless it was Finster. That would be sure to scare the living _fuck_ out of any hopeless romantic, but he wanted to let the guy down easy, not scar him forever.

He paced, thinking and thinking and trying to think and damn near crying 'cause he was swayed by some fucking cigarettes into making his only friend in love with a fictional character that he played. How could he ever possibly explain that if push came to shove? No. No he wouldn't have to explain. He'd take it to his grave. He just had to get Franny off his back till he could burn this crap. How… how how how how? How could he make it seem like she wasn't really a she when his voice sounded-

That was it! He wouldn't speak. He would sign! Both his aunts on his mother's sister's side and at least three of his cousins were deaf and taught more than enough to get by. And what he didn't know he could make up. How would Francis know the difference? He could fuck up his handwriting too, if it came to that. He punched the air in triumph and wrapped his mouth in the bandages that had to be there for the first three acts. He'd let Fran down gently, and even if he crushed his hopes and dreams he'd still have Butch to comfort him. He grinned and steeled his nerves. Now he just had to act like he couldn't speak. Simple.

He took a deep breath and stepped out. Looking both ways, he gulped quietly and shut the door behind him. Maybe… maybe Fran had gone home for the night or got sick of waiting or-

"Excuse me?"

Butch spun, his eyes wide. How had HK gotten so good at sneaking up on him? He almost squeaked, but he kept quiet and put a hand over the padding that covered his heart and smiled through the bandages. The other male was red, and he looked like he had forgotten to how talk. Hustler stood, chewing his lip with his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He just stared, and Butch shifted a little, feeling his face grow hot. Fran never stared at him like that before…

"Ah.. I'm sorry to bother you…" The taller male flushed and seemed to snap back into reality "But I… are you… is your name Christine, by any chance?"

Butch nodded carefully and Francis sighed, total adoration in his eyes. He removed his hands from his pockets and coughed a little. It was so strange to see the steel-nerved, infallible HK reduced to trembling mess. His face was growing brighter by the minute and the tremor in his voice matched the ones shaking his hands. Butch gulped, distantly remembering and thanking whatever higher power reminded him to cover up his Adam's Apple. Butch almost whimpered; What he wouldn't give to be able to smoke _right now_.

"So.. uhm.." Francis tried again, clearing his throat "You're in the.. play, right?"

Butch winced a little for him. The poor guy's nerves were shot to hell all over someone who didn't exist. If anyone ever saw him like this he'd never hear the end of it. Despite the horror of the situation, Butch couldn't help but notice Fran was kind of cute like this, all babbling and red-faced. The cross-dresser nodded and smiled at him, keeping quiet.

It grew silent for a while, and HK tore his gaze away from her in embarrassment. God this was awkward. More awkward than he would have ever imagined. All he had to do was take a breath and _ask_. Just ask. Just ask her to go out somewhere after rehearsal. It was that simple. Why was he so pathetic? It wasn't like he hadn't gone out with people before. He'd been with other girls before. It wasn't hard and they never caused him this much grief – but this one was so… so different! He lifted his gaze again, and Christine tilted her head expectantly, and his brain broke and halted his ability to speak. He gulped and squared his shoulders and looked her right in the (beautiful, deep, alluring, magnificent) eyes.

"Hey… I know it's sudden but if… you're not uhm, doing anything after rehearsal… would you like to go out? Get some coffee or just uhm…?"

He glanced up at her (he had looked away from her without realizing somewhere in the middle of his request) and she seemed to sigh. He watched her look away from him and he scrambled to cover his mistake.

"We don't have to, if you don't like I mean I was just-" Christine cut him off by raising her hand. "Is there… something the matter? Is it that you can't hear me- no, no you can hear you wouldn't have answered me before otherwise. What is it you're trying to-"

She cut him off again. She made some motions with her hands, but he didn't understand. She exhaled and pointed to her mouth, then her throat, then shook her head. Mouth, throat, no? What did that mean? Were the bandages in the way? Was she shy? For the life of him Francis couldn't piece together what Christine trying to tell him.

"You… you can't speak?" Hustler tried.

She shook her head yes.  
He… wasn't expecting that.

"Look, uhm… I-" He met her gaze again and reached out to touch her arm "Not to sound weird or anything but… I'd like to get to know you. Please consider-"

Again she cut him off, tilting her pretty face down and shaking her head sadly. She made a few more gestures, and when he gave her a confused look she tried simplifying them. That didn't seem to take either, and Butch was at a loss of what to do. He almost panicked and resigned to making a sign for paper and pencil, but then a sudden look of understanding and utter rejection washed over Hustler's face.

"There's… someone else, isn't there?" He asked quietly. Butch nodded, trying to keep it less enthusiastic than he wanted to. The taller male seemed to slump in on himself and Butch felt lower than fucking dirt. He peered up at him with the most heartfelt apology a look could give. He didn't seem to catch it, and even if he did he was too upset to make much of it. He smiled dejectedly and tried to make a graceful retreat.

"I…I see. I'm sorry to bother you, then. Uhm… break a leg." He tried, backing up and slipping away into an adjoining hall. She waved at him and he waved back before they were out of each other's sight.

The hustler let out a long-bottled sigh and covered his face with his hands. That… that sucked a lot. Too much. Fuck it actually _hurt_ to be shot down this time. He swallowed thickly and sighed, running a hand through his hair. He belted and buttoned up his coat and hunched around himself, hoping to slink off home before anyone could see him like this.

Butch ducked back into the dressing room and removed the bandages, trying to spit the cottony taste out of his mouth. He wanted to crawl in one of the Diggers holes and just curl up and die. He felt awful. Terrible. But… the deed was done. It would only get better from here, right? Butch could fix him up. He eyed the reflection of the perfect woman in the mirror and he sneered at it.

What a tramp.

O/O

The hustler was in his shadows before he was the next morning. Butch eyed him carefully, a pit forming in his stomach. This couldn't bode well… He strode over, sucking on his cig, he tried to catch Fran's downcast gaze. He could play the clown to make Hustler hustle again. He flipped himself upside down, trying to get in the way of Francis' intense focus of the ground. Butch found, however, that Francis' eyes were unfocused. Oh this was bad. Maybe the spoken material would go over better. He was getting dizzy upside down like this, anyway.

"Dontcha have a job to do, Franny?" He asked, righting himself and tilting his head "Or you get run outta business by the Gusler Kid again?"

There was no answer. This worried Butch. He felt that knot form in his stomach again. After not sleeping the previous night he thought maybe, just maybe it would be gone for good. He couldn't even force himself to eat it was bad. Smoke seemed to be the only thing he could choke down. He wondered if Francis had eaten. Butch shook his head, trying to banish the queer thought from his mind.

"Hey… what's the matter Francis? Cmon, you can tell me." He gently tugged the hustler's coat and he was rewarded with a glance.  
"You…" He seemed to finally breathe, and Butch got the sigh he was looking for. "You remember that girl I was tellin' you about?"  
"Yeah. What happened?"  
"She's taken."  
"Ouch… tough break, Fran. Sorry."

He shook his head and tried to put an arm around him to make him feel better, but Hustler was stiff despite it. Butch winced a little, canceling the next sentence that was going to fall from him. Somehow he figured the 'plenty of other fish in the sea' line wasn't going to cut it this time. He damn near grimaced at the glum looking Hustler under his arm.

"I just… she was perfect, Butch. I'd do-"  
"Hold it right there. None of that talk. It's not gonna happen, Fran. You and I both know that. If she's off the market, you can't just sit around pining for her. It'll ruin you. This mopin' stuff is already wreckin yah. Lookit yerself. You haven't sold nothing in days. You gonna let Fingers take over yer business just like that?"

Butch glanced at him, trying not to stare imploringly at the other male to just get back to normal already. Belatedly he hoped that that little speech of his didn't sound too obvious. Thankfully, HK sighed and rubbed his eyes. He patted Butch's arm and detached himself from the storyteller's grip.

"Yeah… I guess you're right" he murmured after a few moments of silence "Look, ah, thanks Butch. Really."  
"No problem. Don't mention it." He almost added a 'please' to the end of it and he stepped backwards into the shadows, just about ready to melt away. "I'll call you later, kay? We'll talk business."

The hustler nodded and turned to get back to his stomping grounds. Butch lit up another cig and took a heavy drag. He peered at the fancy brown packaging and it's swirly letters. They… didn't taste as good as he thought they would have.

O/O

Everything seemed to patch itself up the closer it got to show time, like a paper cut on a fingertip. It hurt like hell for a few days, but after that is just became an unnoticeable scar. Or, at least Butch hoped that was how Fran felt. He seemed less hung up on being shot down, and he'd even laughed and smiled like old times. But Fran could act pretty well. The smoker hoped he was okay.

He had tried his hardest to be there for him, but rehearsals consumed his after-school life. He covered with some story about redoing his parents room, then his brothers, then the bathroom. Parents and their home improvement kicks. Go figure. Butch had been there when it mattered, though. They'd gotten back to the natural rhythm of things, and that seemed to suit them both just fine. If Butch didn't have to play her, he was sure he would have forgotten all about Fran's perfect woman.

A few days before opening night, though, Fran made it clear that he hadn't forgotten at all.

"I'm going to go see that play…" He mused, looking at one of the poorly-copied posters tacked to the cork board outside the main office, completely missing Butch's choking noise.  
"What for?" he asked casually, recovering and puffing carefully.  
"I want to see her again. Even if it is from the back of the auditorium."  
"No one goes to those things, Fran. You'll get a front row seat."  
"Better for me then."  
"Whatever floats your boat, HK." He replied, fighting the urge to punch him out and hide him in a box until the final show.  
"Damn…" Franicis' brows knit and he frowned, ignoring Butch again "Can't make any show 'cept the last night" Hustler muttered.

Butch shrugged and they wandered off in opposite directions. Once out of Hustler's sight he clutched his chest and sighed in relief. He could at least prepare himself for the inevitable. Still, Butch didn't trust himself to say anything more. He had a little under a week to compose himself and hope to God nothing went too wrong.

O/O

As it turned out, everything went off without a hitch. Butch didn't exactly have to worry about lines (he was a ghost who didn't speak and put people into deep sleeps for performing lustful acts under the tree he/she was raped under. Not exactly much for him to say). He just had to remember where to stand and when to pop out from behind the curtains. He didn't mind it as much as he though he would have. The Drama Douchebags might have been demented, but the crew was actually pretty cool. They made fun of the actors and got him a beer and listened to one of his creepy stories and otherwise left him the hell alone. That was enough to get on Butch's good side.

When the last show came, Butch found himself caught up in the first bout of stage fright he'd had. However, he secured his resolve and put on the show like he had every other night, though the cast said it was better than usual. Butch wondered how they figured. He was scanning the crowd every ten minutes to look for a certain smitten salesman rather than focusing.

He didn't see him. Not in any of the four acts. He skipped the curtain call like he had for the other nights in spite of heated protest from overzealous thespians. He had to get out of this costume and burn this itchy wig and wash his face. After that was done, Christine would be no more and Hustler wouldn't have to worry and Butch could die with another secret weighing him down. That kind of drama he could deal with.

Unbeknownst to him, Francis _was_ in the audience, waiting to see Christine.

When she didn't come out to bow, he figured she was trying to make a quick get away to avoid the reporters. He smiled and slipped out the back while the audience clapped and roared with applause. Hustler tipped the guard and slipped into the 'Actors Only' section, carefully retrieving the flowers he gotten to congratulate her on her performance. She really had done a good job; no one he knew but Butch could pull off a haunting ghost-like entity that well.

The Hustler slipped into the Drama Club classroom. He knew this seemed a tad stalker-like, but he couldn't shake her. He'd just… have a chat with her and he'd sever himself from her for good. Butch was right, after all. No use in trying to buy an unbuyable. He just wanted to see her one last time. Leave on a good note rather than the lame one he had last time. He cleared his throat and peeked around the corner. He caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror and the red hair that fell down her back. He smiled and moved around the corner, just in time to see her pull her hair away from her face and… off her head… and he watched it fall away, revealing brown hair with a white streak down the center of it.

Before he could process the image, Butch turned and faced him, totally in costume, makeup and all, except for the wig. They stared at each other. Francis dropped the flowers and his jaw followed suit. Butch flushed redder than anyone should be able to under that much makeup. It was the worst kind of awkward silence. Butch broke it buy swallowing thickly and smiling nervously.

"Eheh… hi?"

Hustler didn't react. He barely breathed. He looked blank, broken, shattered even. He didn't say anything and Butch wondered if he could somehow get around the bigger, stronger, taller male and out the door before he snapped back into consciousness and broke him in half. Surely he could live down running home in a dress. Anything was better than dying at the hands of a jilted, angry, heartbroken former-best friend. However, Butch couldn't seem to move.

It took a long, very long time for Hustler to respond. He still looked blank, but his eyes seemed to focus on Butch and said male backed up, cowering between the flimsy fold-out chair and the vanity table. HK took a few moments trying to think of the words to say. The most articulate things he could come up with was:

"Butch… what the _fuck_?"

Already the babble had started. Butch spat word after word to try and explain himself. Francis barked question after question, approaching him with fists clenched and teeth grit. Their voices grew louder and louder until finally Francis screamed at Butch to shut up. Everything went quiet after that for a few moments. Hustler looked pissed, but hadn't moved. Butch was shaking a little, but he shored himself up and tried once more to explain himself. He spoke nervously, quickly. A little too quickly.

"…and it's not like I _meant_ for this to happen. No, not at all. They came and found me. Bribed me with cigs and-"

Butch flinched at the sudden jerk of HK's head. He clamped a palled hand over his painted mouth. That part wasn't supposed to get out. So much for taking this to his grave. The hustler seemed to break, shattering for the briefest of moments before piecing himself back together. He looked hollow, and Butch couldn't remember being this horrified in a long, long time.

"You lead me on… for cigarettes?" Francis asked finally, deceptively calm.  
"No! No it's not like that."  
"You… for _smokes_?"  
"No! Francis I didn't want to do that to you-"  
"Then why did you let it happen?"  
"It was a mistake! I thought you knew it was me and you were yankin my chain."  
"Even after I _told_ you-"  
"No!"  
"So you lead me on-"  
"I tried to let you down gently…"  
"I can't even look at you…"

The hustler shook his head, looking broken and angry and defeated all at once. He groped for the doorknob, and with one last piercing glare despite his claim and eerie calm exterior, he left.

Butch sighed and collapsed back onto the makeup chair. He put his face in his hands. He could have cried, but he didn't. He just sat there and eventually got up to wash the crap off his face, scrubbing a bit harder than he probably should have. He became Butch again and left out the same door Fran had taken. His eyes stung, his skin burned, and most of him itched something terrible – but it wasn't enough.

There had to be some way to fix this.

O/O

There was a knock at his door.

Hustler poked his head out of his stockroom and looked around. He put down his ledger and shuffled over to the doorway. It was probably his old man sending some weird message from China or wherever the fuck he was now. While he wasn't in the mood, whoever was out there wouldn't stop knocking until he humored him. So Francis opened the door and instead or a postman or an angry subordinate, there stood a timid-looking Butch.

He tried to slam the door shut, but Butch shoved his boot in the way. He muttered a few pleas, looking everywhere but at his face. He managed to catch the door and open it regardless of the hustler's attempts to keep it from opening. Francis glared at him despite giving up on the door. It had been a few days since the incident, but Hustler wasn't so quick to forgive someone who cheated him. He stared expectantly at Butch, and the storyteller squirmed a little.

"Well?" The salesman started "What do you want?"  
"Ten minutes to explain."  
"You have six"  
"Eight"  
"Seven and a half starting now."  
"I… I'm sorry." Butch said, taking a deep breath and looking every bit the part of a kicked dog. "I never meant to lead you on like that, really. I just thought you were jokin, and then yer face lit up like that and… I got spooked. You know how bad I am with lying… it just snowballed. Honest to God. I thought you'd be able to catch me and pin me like you always do and that would be the end of it but you didn't and I… I panicked. You gotta know I'd never would've messed with you if I could think straight but that was the best plan I could come up with and… ah… I dunno what to say other than I'm sorry and… here."

Butch pushed a bag into the Hustlers hands and slipped off to his side, sliding into the garage. He was looking at the floor, looking contrite as ever. HK looked at the sack and arched a brow. He opened it, his gaze shifting from Butch to the contents of the bag.

"What's this?" he asked in a low voice.  
"My bribe. All of it… more or less. I may have taken a hit or two."  
"…Why?"  
"See, the way I figure is I got 'em for free and then you can make a crapload of profit on 'em. I mean… uhm… they don't… taste as good as I thought they would."  
"Butch-"  
"Uhm… my seven is pretty much up and I'm just gonna go-"  
"Butch, wait."

He closed the bag and Butch turned, his face toward him but his eyes were searching the floor. The hustler shook his head and sat in one of his nearby chairs. He set the bag on the floor and rubbed his eyes.

"I'm… I shouldn't have blown up at you" he muttered, "It's not your fault, completely. Mostly, yes. But not completely."

The storyteller smiled a little and took a few tentative steps toward Franny while he picked up the bag and pawed through it. Butch smiled - he had some decent shit in there. Fran was gonna make some good money. It was the only thing he could think of that would soothe his guilt in the slightest. There was something still bothering him, though. He knew giving him some stuff to sell wasn't going to smooth things over, but that wasn't what irked him. It was something he'd said…

"Hey…" Butch started, kneeling in front of him, snapping him out of his inspection mode "Did you… mean what you said?"  
"What? He snapped, lifting his gaze from the bag to Butch.  
"You…" Butch cleared his throat softly. He could feel his face go a little red, but he pressed on. "You uh…really think I got nice eyes?"

Francis blinked and he tilted his head. He /did/ technically complement Butch a million times on his eyes, but that was when they were done up with mascara and eye shadow and whatever other gunk he plastered on his face. He hadn't gotten a chance to look at them since. Butch did have an especially girly face, moreso when he reached up and pushed away some of the hair that was covering it. They _were_ nice, he decided. Really nice. Hustler smiled a little and removed his hand, letting the hair fall back to where it normally fell. He cuffed Butch on the shoulder and shook his head.

"Yeah, you got some nice eyes, Butchy Boy." He muttered. Butch smiled.  
"Thanks Fran."  


* * *

**Yeah I probably should have split that up a bit. Eh. **  
**Thanks for reading :D**


	5. My Mouth Feels Naked

**Hey look these two again. Have you missed them? Sure you have!**

**And, hey, look, more gay! Confused, slightly random, kind of not well explained gay, but still there! And progress! More of that! Rejoice!**

**Fun fact: This was actually the second story I ever wrote of these two. I'm still debating whether or not to put in the first one. I had to edit the hell out of this one guys, for serious. I sucked like a year or so ago ffft.**

**Enjoy!**  


* * *

A blissful few uneventful months had passed since the whole Christine debacle. For a while it had been rough, neither boy speaking to the other, HK being especially gruff about transactions and Butch smoking like he was breathing the stuff. Eventually they came around, started talking again, making deals with each other. There was no talk of flavored cigarettes or red hair. Butch took it as a huge step back to square one when Francis was finally able to shake his hand and look him in the eye for more than three seconds.

Be that as it may, they were still cautious around each other.

Butch was afraid of getting hit more than anything. He'd heard the horror stories about Francis cashing in on outstanding balances- and he believed them. The guy was built like a friggin' building and known for having a temper. Butch knew he was already on thin ice – he didn't want to anger the killer whale circling below him. Besides, Butch knew when he fucked up, and he didn't exactly have all that many friends so he figured the best thing to do was hang onto the one he had.

Francis, on the other hand, just couldn't shake the image. It was bewitching. It had taken a while for him to not see Christine every time he looked at Butch. It was those eyes – those damned eyes! He never looked at them before, not for so long. That was what killed him, but he persisted. It took a while but he got over it. He mended his uneasy friendship and tried to usher it into a new direction. He wanted Butch to still do product placement, yes, but the more he thought about it the more he wanted to try this friend thing. At the very least it would stop him from thinking of Butch in a red wig and pencil skirt. So far, it seemed to be working.

They were out near the lake tonight, aimlessly wandering. It was after Hustler closed shop and before Butch's self-induced insomnia that they figured was the best time to meet up. Sometimes they sat in the parking lot of a 24-hour store, other times they just kept walking. More often than not, though, the found themselves near the lake – Muddy Bottom Pond, to be exact. There was a half-finished wall that ran along the southern side, pressed right into the fleshy side of a hill, low and perfect for sitting. Butch hopped up on it, gripping the edge while he chattered away, cigarette in his teeth, running his newest story past the Hustler while he leaned against the wall. Some part of him faltered a bit when he noticed they were now the same height, but he kept on, finishing the story with his usual flourish.

"…And they never saw him again." Butch stated, his voice down to the low, creepy octave that he always ended his stories in.  
"How come all your stories end with some kid disappearing forever?" HK asked.  
"That's the best ending I can come up with, I guess." Butch admitted, puffing his cigarette as he thought "But, but hey, it's not like it's a _bad_ ending, right? Hell, like you could come up with anything better."  
"You could try the truth." Hustler pointed out blandly "That'll throw 'em for a loop."  
"The truth ain't that interesting." Butch wrinkled his nose and just laughed, stubbing the cig out on the bricks.  
"Truth is stranger than fiction."

Hustler leaned against the same wall, happy for the momentary lapse in smoked choked air. It had been a constant damn stream of that smog since they'd met at Kelso's. For all the mysteries about Butch Francis was having a hard time deciphering this one without help. Why was he so addicted, who gave him his first, how did he not smell like smoke all the time though theoretically he should stink like he rolled around in the stuff? Despite all these questions the hustler knew better than to blurt them out. The thoughts rattled around in his brain, things he could never think about asking Butch outright 'cause it would be too weird. He had been thinking a lot about Butch, actually… or was it Christine? They had both fallen silent for now, the rustling of fabric as Butch pawed around for his cig the only real noise.

Butch saw to it that was broken soon enough.

"Fucking hell." He hissed, turning out his pockets for the third time.  
"What is it now? Loose your train of thought?" Hustler asked, his eyes closed, uninterested for the most part.  
"Mm. just a sec." Butch cursed again, then huffed and rubbed his face. It fell quiet.  
"What did you lose?" Hustler asked, opening one of his eyes and seeing a very distraught looking Butch in his field of vision.  
"Didn't loose anything." He said. "Just… I'm outta cigs."  
"Good. You'll live longer."  
"Cut it out with that." He hissed. "I get enough of that from mom. Don't go makin' me feel bad here too."  
"So you're out. Go buy more." Hustler tried, both his eyes open now, quietly realizing that Butch didn't even really look like Butch anymore without a cancer stick in his teeth.  
"Outta cash too. Don't get paid til Friday." He huffed and rubbed his face, squirming around.

HK grunted and shifted away, Butch's squirming making him uncomfortable. What the hell was his problem? Didn't he have toothpicks or something else to chomp on? And who the hell still got an allowance at sixteen? Couldn't he go get a job or something – oh he sure as hell better not start asking for wages.

"It's just…" Butch said suddenly "Its like… my mouth feels naked without 'em, yah know? I mean, I dunno. It's like some sort of fixation. Remember Mrs. Donald's lecture of the Freudian things? Oral fixation. I think that's what I got. Damn…" He sucked in a breath, turning to face Hustler who was, much to his surprise, listening with rapt attention. "Nevamind. It's nothing, really."  
"Is that all?" He asked, "Well, lets see if that can't be fixed."

With that, the Hustler leaned in and kissed the other boy thoroughly, his chin trapped between his thumb and forefinger.

To say that Butch was surprised would have been such a grand lie that even Butch wouldn't have believed it. For a moment he didn't even breathe – everything seemed to grind to a sudden halt. But oddly enough it wasn't a bad halt. It was just a sudden one. Whatever Franny was doing (kissing him – Butch realized a little bit later), it didn't feel all that bad. Not that he had anything to compare it to. He was pretty sure this was familiar in some weird way, but at the same time this was entirely new and he was kinda curious as to where it was gonna go. So he waited, belatedly shutting his eyes and leaning forward into it.

It took a few minutes for it to sink into HK's consciousness, but when it got there, it seized him up like an old car engine. What was he doing? What the hell was he thinking? He just kissed- was kissing- his friend! Butch! He was kissing Butch! What the fuck! This had to be a mistake – hormones or something. He had to blame this on something that wasn't him. There was no way he would have ever done this at any other time – not before Christine. That was it. He was replacing Butch for that red haired beauty that didn't actually exist. That was it, that _had_ to be it. He wouldn't have done it otherwise.

Right?

However, staying true to his ability to keep the inside separate form the outside, he didn't _quite_ pull away. If anything, he leaned in a bit more and let go of Butch's chin, sliding that hand up into his hair and pulling a soft sound from the shorter male. He could protest and shout and fume inside his head as much as he wanted but that didn't stop him from enjoying this sensation. He couldn't remember the last time he'd kissed someone, let alone kissed someone like this. It was, well, wonderful. Amazing. Almost perfect. It couldn't get any better-

And then mouths were open and hands were moving and there were shy fingers and tongues carefully moving about and up and down and in and out and Butch tasted kind of sweet behind the smoke and Francis tasted pretty good too and now they were flush together and this was feeling way too good and breath was running low and so they pulled back.

But that turned out to be a mistake. The both of them turned bright red and let go, detangling themselves from each other and shifting a fair bit of distance away. If Butch ever really, really needed a smoke that time would be right fucking now. Francis, on the other hand, was trying to put the whole situation together, but his mind seemed to be a in a bit of a fuzz and didn't want to cooperate. They stole nervous glances at each other, biting lips and shifting weight, trying to find words to say to maybe hopefully diffuse the tension -sexual, awkward, or otherwise.

A few painfully quiet minutes passed and Butch gathered up enough courage to look directly at the other. He noticed, even in the dark, he was bright red. Then again, his face was kind of burning a bit too. He chewed his lip and kicked his feet, looking down again, then back up to the side of Francis' still-reddened face. Butch, being Butch, thought the easiest way to break the silence would be to crack a joke.

"Hey… looks like you can express yourself, after all."  
"W-What?" Francis asked quietly.  
"Ah… you-your face. It's red as a cherry." Butch gulped a little and kicked his legs. There was no answer. Maybe that wasn't the way to open up.

Another silence followed, tearing at them. Unable to take much more, they both slipped away from the wall, not quite looking at each other, not quite talking to each other, but casting careful glances and muttering softly. Neither wanted to admit how much they had actually really liked it. I mean, if they other had liked it as much, they'd say so, right? Right. Or so they figured.

They were just about to go their separate ways when Butch (because there was something about what happened just minutes before that made him feel a bit funny but in a good way) thought of one last ditch effort to keep him there.

"My mouth still feels naked." He murmured almost too quietly, touching is lips and studying HK from the corner of his eye.

The hustler stiffened, immediately turning to regard the white-streaked boy. The quiet was different now, not tense but questioning. Butch finally brought his eyes up to Francis' level and it seemed they really didn't need to talk anymore. Hustler didn't turn to leave. Rather, he approached Butch with a few careful steps and, in a remarkably familiar gesture, tipped his head up once more searching his face. Butch stared right back and Francis seemed to find what he was looking for in those dark eyes because only a moment later he was kissing Butch again, deeper and more urgently than before.

It got heated quickly, to the point where the dealer shoved Butch against the short wall, if only to rest his weight comfortably against his companion while his fingers gripped gently at his short hair. Butch didn't seem to mind. In fact, he seemed to enjoy it, moaning and sliding his leg around Francis' for good measure. The normally composed salesman _shuddered_, his whole body twitching as he groaned in return.

They broke apart for breath again… but this time the red faces and stuttering apologies were absent. It was replaced with a careful caress on HK's part, feeling the heat rise in Butch's face. Rather than say anything, the smaller male swallowed thickly and reached up, pulling those lips back down to his, skipping right past the soft stuff Francis thought was supposed to come in favor of a few gentle laps at the seams of his lips, begging to be let in and taste again. Hustler happily obliged.

Fingers probed and stroked and caressed through fabric that was rapidly becoming a bit too warm. Mouths opened and shut and pressed and teeth nipped and nibbled and tongues met and twirled and rubbed together in a dance that neither of them really knew but were improvising pretty damn well. The moaned and whined and made soft noises breathing through their nose and trying as best as they could not to break for air unless absolutely necessary. Backs arched, torsos pressed into each other and hips pressed flush. There were careful, subtle touches and breaths and deft moves away from the lips to seek out more spots to kiss but those never lasted long enough to prove fruitful. Lips always returned to lips and there they happily stayed.

A sudden vibration between them made them both spasm and lurch. Francis cursed, panting softly while he pawed around for the damn phone, fully intent on tossing it into the sky and getting back to Butch. The teller had other plans, however, and looked at him curiously.

"Who?" Butch asked, his voice more quiet and raspy than he thought.  
"It's… ah. My… my…?" He blinked in confusion, trying to squint in the dark to know whom to hate.  
"It's okay. No big." Butch shrugged a little and somehow slipped out of the small pocket between the larger male and the shorter wall.

Stretching his muscles, Butch found himself grinning like the cat that got the canary. Francis was still a little red, from what he could see and he seemed to be out of breath while he fumbled with his phone and turned away to chatter quietly into it, hanging up a short few moments later.

Butch busied himself by patting himself down again, stopping at his inside pocket and pulled out a thin cigarette, lighting it up with a flick of his lighter. He didn't react to Hustler's shocked expression, taking a few long drags. Butch eyed him a few moments, trying to figure out why Fran looked at him like that. He puffed, grinning at the dealer before turning a bit and making his way off to his neck of the woods.

"I'll catch ya later, Franny." He said, waving causally over his shoulder.

He heard Francis choke behind him, but he didn't turn. He didn't want to snap Francis' last nerve, and he sure as hell didn't want to get beat up this late. Instead he picked up the pace, jogging off to his basement room and TV, hoping to not think about this too long and instead rot his brain with a bit of late night TV or a possible movie marathon.

What Butch didn't realize was Francis wouldn't have dreamed of killing him just that moment. There were too many thoughts in his head to concentrate on hitting him or even yelling at him. In fact, he kind of felt like running after the storyteller, keeping him around for a little while. But Butch was gone before he could act upon it. It was a little disheartening, but he'd see Butch again. Maybe he'd have this all figured out by tomorrow morning.

Hopefully.  


* * *

**Random makeout is random. Also fueled by hormones. Yeah. I don't pretend to make sense. **  
**Thanks for reading!**


	6. Switch Hitter

**Yay! More of this. I know you're excited. **  
**More transition than anything, blah blah blah. There will be more action in the next few really. But then there is school and such so I can't say how long that's gonna be. **

**Many thanks to the people who have bothered to read this. I honestly didn't think it would be so well received for a crack pairing xD**

**Enjoy!**  


* * *

Butch found this whole manner of behavior unsettling. He had pondered it over cigarettes, over homework, in class and even through his favorite movies. Nothing quite added up, but Butch was determined to make it so. He was decent at figuring out problems, and the fact that something like this stumped him bothered Butch more than anything.

It had happened only twice more after the first time at Muddy Bottom Pond.

The first time had been an impulse on both their parts. They were sprawled out In Butch's basement, watching a movie – Butch couldn't remember what exactly. But the scene had changed from a fight scene to something much more sexually charged. The leading man and leading lady were suddenly kissing -the hot and heavy stuff- making the two boys feel somewhat awkward. They stared at the screen, stealing glances at each other. Before they knew it they were held up in each other's arms, kissing, shyly mimicking the actions on the screen. They parted once he cut flashed from steamy makeout to another explosion, startling them apart. Neither one of them said a thing about it.

The second time really didn't count, officially speaking. There was no toughing of mouth-to-mouth or even mouth-to-skin. They were arguing over something. Something they were both passionate about, seeing as how neither backed down. They got so close, so up in each others face, screaming and breathing and snarling in the same breath. They stopped shouting all at once, panting. For some reason Francis just barely touched Butch's cheek with his fingertips. Just as suddenly they were at the opposite sides of the alley, mumbling at the walls and parting ways.

While the first time was… disturbing as it was thrilling, Butch found that second time so much more… unsettling. It twisted his gut something terrible, made him squirm in his skin. He was convinced he would have dealt with this situation better if Francis had slammed him into the wall and kissed him instead of touching his face and _looking_ at him like that. It was shit like _that_ that would get you caught, start rumors and get your shit canned for the rest of High School. Butch, though about as laid back as they came without the help of illegal narcotics, did not want things to get out of hand or be responsible for some kind of fuckup.

So got himself a girlfriend.

It wasn't hard; barely took any effort on his part. He just sauntered up to one of them at Kelso's and chatted her up. Like in the movies. Sure as shit every line worked beautifully. She seemed charmed, flattered, and glad to be in his company. Some part of him was disgusted at how easily she fell for his inflated bullshit. But the larger part shrugged it off and went with it. Now he didn't have to worry about rumors or Francis getting mad at him. Easy.

But not quite.

He ran into trouble about a week after he had gotten cozy with his new arm candy. She was a sweet girl, really she was. He gushed to her about whatever and she just sat there and nodded. Then Butch would do the same when it was his turn to listen. One day she cut off his rant to learn more about movies. Butch balked a little – he didn't want to reveal his sources, but she was really kinda pretty and she really wanted to go, so he couldn't refuse. They made a date to go to the Marionette Theater one night that week. A few hours before his date he stood around with Francis, just being lazy.

"Come over tonight." Francis said. "I gotta run some stuff by you, show you new merch."  
"I can't man." Butch said, shrugging a little. "Got plans."  
"Plans?" Hustler repeated. "With who?"  
"My girlfriend."  
"Ah."

Butch paused mid inhale (he had tried not to smoke around her – she didn't like the smell), and looked at him. What did he mean 'ah' all nonchalant like? He hadn't told him about her yet. How did he know? And why was he so okay with it? When it came to business he was so uppity. When it came to _Butch_ at all he usually got all uppity. Last time he said he had plans Fran drilled him about where his mom was taking him. But apparently a girlfriend was nothing. Where the fuck did he get off?

"It's no big deal." Francis said, noting the look on Butch's face "You go do what you gotta do. The stuff'll be there tomorrow or whenever you're free."  
"You knew I had a-"  
"Girlfriend? Yeah." He grinned at Butch "I'm pretty well informed. It ain't just you who knows everything."

Butch blinked a bit but took another drag. Well… that was kinda unexpected. But what the hell, Franny was good too, he guessed. Butch shrugged mostly to himself and stubbed his cigarette out beneath his boot. He wanted to thank Francis but he wasn't sure why or what for, exactly. It seemed right, but Butch couldn't make the words form.

"You're not pissed?"  
"No. Why would I be?"  
"Business is business – and you got all bitchy last time."  
"Don't worry about it. Go on and have a nice time. Just spare me the details the next day, alright?"  
"Sounds fair."  
"When's your date?" Fran asked suddenly "Outta curiosity."  
"Like an hour after school. The movie's late. She wants to spend most of today together."  
"Mm. Gotcha."  
"I'm sorry-"  
"Don't be. Don't be." Francis said, waving his hand. "It's cool."

Butch offered him a bit of a smile and nodded, slipping away from the hustler as he went back to his stock. He thought about saying goodbye, about thanking him, and even about sticking around a bit longer. But he didn't. Instead he waved a little and slipped away, not really waiting for Francis to take notice of him. Butch was sure he did, though and didn't think too much about it.

After all, thinking too much about it would only make things worse.

O/O

Francis hit the wall.

Literally.

He supposed he could think of it in two ways, metaphorically and physically. But he was never all that great at English so he was content with slamming his fist over and over into the same spot whenever he fucking felt like it. It wasn't a constant stream punctuated by grumble. More like very few minutes he'd feel so damned angry he'd have to hit something really, really hard. So he did. The wall suffered terribly and he was going to have to pay for it later but at the moment he'd rather hit.

He knew Butch had a girlfriend. He had found out by accident. He was doing some business by one of the alleys near Kelso's store and he spotted them. He thought, for a second, that he was happy for him. But that wasn't what he felt, not really. He was upset, angry, enraged, all at once. He had growled and fled, running back to his empty house to stalk around in private, muttering to himself and scowling at mirrors, trying to contain he rage. Had he stayed outside, he was sure he could have hurt somebody.

Hustler didn't like to be cheated. He hated it. He hated it more than he hated lying. He downright despised it. It made his blood boil and his temper flare. He _hated_ being angry, he didn't _like_ being violent. So seeing Butch with his arm around that girl, smiling at her with the same smile he'd been given (he hated used merch), _kissing_ her…

Francis hit the wall again.

The hustler didn't care about people all that much. He only cared about his merchandise, his profits. If Butch wasn't his property, then why did he fucking _care_ so much? It was ruining him. He shouldn't have had to bite back his emotions the way he did. He wanted to scream at Butch, to grab him by the wrist and haul him kicking and screaming to his garage and make him sit there with him. He wanted to hit. To kick and slam him into the wall until he stopped moving but kept breathing, and then take care of his injuries and make sure he knew better than to ever cross him again. He wanted Butch to be here now. With him. Not with her. Never with her.

The hustler sat on the nearest flat surface, cradling his face in his hands. Why was he so screwed up? Why couldn't he be happy for his one and only not-only-business related friend? Why the fuck was he so insecure? Butch would be back. He came around even when Francis didn't want him – he'd be back. Soon. Very soon.

Francis caught himself looking at the door, waiting.

The hustler slipped off the crate and listened to his sigh echo off the walls. It was slow tonight. No one would mind if he went off to bed a bit early. Certainly not Butch. He was too busy with that girl to notice he totally ditched his friend.

HK did not like being ditched.

Instead of hitting the wall again he simply glared at the dent he had made, bored with the effort. He wasn't angry anymore, not after so many hours. Just… disappointed - in whom, he wasn't sure. Francis shed his coat and hung it on a perfectly good coat rack near the door. He pulled out his keys and out fluttered a few scraps of paper, all of which would have gone unnoticed by the upset hustler if one of them hadn't gotten stuck to his pant leg. Only half caring he scooped them up after he locked the door, inspecting them all. All of them I.O.U.'s. All from Butch.

The sight made him grin.

It seemed to him that Butchy-boy wracked up quite the tab with his nicotine habit. Francis grinned. It was the first of the month tomorrow – the standard day to collect outstanding tabs. Butch would understand. He would have to – this was his debt to repay, no matter how many dates he had lined up.  


* * *

**Not gonna lie. Desperate!Angsty!Francis is my favorite Francis to write. **  
**Like I said, more action in the next one. Pervy actin. Action I probably should up the rating on this more for. Oh well. we'll see.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	7. Debts Repaid

**Hi everyone! I'm still startled there are more than 2 people reading this, so thanks so much for all the feedback and encouragement. I really appreciate it!**

**On another note, this is a rework of the first story I wrote for Butch and HK. It's so much less random and better I couldn't not share it with you!**  
**That being said, please take note that this is one of those M-rated chapters I warned you about in the summary. If this kind of this offends you (i.e. - boy love, slash, inappropriate things) than please do skip over it. In addition, if I'm breaking any rules / need to change the whole story to an M rating then please let me know and it will be done immediately if not sooner. **

**IN OTHER WORDS, THIS CHAPTER IS M. ADULT STUFF BELOW THE LINE. JUST PUTTING THAT OUT THERE**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Collections were one of Francis' least favorite things to do. They cost him time, effort, and profit – plus he just heard the same bullshit over and over again. Eventually someone would be sniveling and he would be richer, and it all made him feel kind of like a dick. But business was business, and if they didn't pay up of their own volition he had to make them pay, lest he be considered a softy.

This collection however, Francis was looking forward to.

It wasn't going to be a collection job- not at first. Francis was going to corner him, confront him straight on. He had figured it would be better to bide his time, to wait. Wait until Butch ran out of the thing he needed most, what all those IOU's were for. But there was a small hitch in his plan. Butch was taking an extraordinarily long time to deplete his cigs. The pack that normally took him two days to deplete was taking a week and a half. After ten days Francis remembered vaguely that Butch had mentioned that his girl didn't quite tolerate the smell of smoke like Francis did – and since Butch was spending more time with her instead of him…

No matter. This snag was easily undone.

"Butch."  
"In a sec Fran."  
"No."

Butch found the cigarette plucked from his mouth, stomped beneath the hustler's boot. Francis grinned cruelly at him and crossed his arms. Butch stared with some mixture of shock and anger, exhaling the last bit of smoke before mimicking the hustler's body position and scowling at him.

"The hell was that for, huh? Can't wait three goddamn minutes-"  
"No. No I can't."  
"What the hell is so important-"  
"We have business matters to discuss. Now."

Francis' tone left no room for argument. He stepped back, slipping into a nearby alley. Butch let him lead the way, but took his sweet time following him. He knew better than to take too long – Francis seemed pretty pissed and business was all this guy did. To deprive him of that meant a fist in his face. With some small measure of disappointment he remembered that was his last cigarette and he slipped into the alley.

Once his eyes adjusted Francis appeared out of nowhere, pushing him somewhat gently into the wall. Butch almost yelped – but he choked it down and took a chance, sliding off to the side a bit. Francis barred his path. Butch shrugged – he had expected it, but what did it hurt to try? He grinned sheepishly at the salesman, trying to piece together a sizeable, believable, universal excuse to keep himself bruise-free.

"You seem to have quite the tab, Butch" he said, "What do you suppose we do about that?"  
"Aw, c'mon now Fran-"  
"No no, can't be giving you special treatment, Butchy boy." The hustler grinned his best grin, his fist gathering up a good part of Butch's shirt "You know my rules and I bent them more than enough for you so… "  
"We take this as a learning experience?" Butch tried, his overly large nervous smile faltering when Francis slowly shook his head no.  
"Don't look so glum, Butchy boy." The hustler said quietly. "I'm not gonna hurt you. I just want my money."  
"That's the problem y-you see." Butch winced at his stuttering, "I… don't got any."  
"You don't. Oh, well that _is_ a problem." The hustler almost smiled, but he kept himself in check "Stop that wincing, still not gonna hurt you. Tell you what – give me what you have left and I'll give you a day."  
"Ah… another problem there." Butch explained, looking for a way out "I… kinda finished what you gave me. I was… gonna get some more tomorrow and pay you back then, really!"

Francis made a tsking noise and shook his head. Butch felt his organs sink to his toes. This wasn't going well. Fran looked real calm but Butch had heard stories – the more pissed off HK was the more level he became. It was kind of scaring him, actually. Butch might have passed it off on his one-too-many serial killer books and movies, how the most horrifying ones were the ones with no expression while they hacked away at their victims. But now that he was here, he was really freaking out. He knew they were friends- kind of, maybe a little more than that, but not really. He was just doing his job, after all, and Butch couldn't blame him for that. Of course bears just snapped defenseless little deer necks and that was their job too. That didn't mean Butch wanted to deal with the business end of either of them.

"Ooh, strike two." Francis said suddenly, jerking the hand holding Butch's shirt and snapping the storyteller back into reality.  
"You don't gotta do nothin rash now-"  
"I'm not, I'm not. In fact I may be so inclined to believe your story – something I don't usually grant my clients on… collection calls. You should be honored."  
"I am." Butch squeaked "Really appreciate that Franny now if you let me just squeeze by here-"  
"We're not done."  
"O-okay."  
"Relax wouldja? I gotta another option up my sleeve. Well, one of three." The hustler paused a moment, waiting for Butch's eye to open so he could explain "I wasn't gonna tell you this, on account of we're pretty good friends and I didn't want to freak you out. I normally offer three options of payment, you see."  
"A-And those would be?"  
"Cash, grass, or ass." Butch choked a bit, shrinking down while Francis elaborated. "Either you pay me in dead presidents, that other green stuff, or –"  
"Ass huh?" Butch found it in him to chuckle a little "I didn't think you swung that way-"  
"In your case, I'm going to kick it until I get my damn money."

Butch laughed- a high, needlessly sharp sound- more nervous than anything. He babbled on and on, trying to get Francis to let go of his shirt and leave him in once piece. But the hustler wasn't having any of it. His placid face turned into a frown, then a scowl. This only made Butch babble on worse, throwing every excuse in the book at him, raising his voice in an effort to get anyone to notice them so he wouldn't die in some back alley for a cigarette tab Before too long Francis had had enough and he interrupted Butch with a shove.

"Let me put it this way – you cough up my money or I'm gonna get mad."  
"Now don't do _that_ just lemme explain-"  
"No. No more explaining either you give me my money or you put that mouth to better use and you _earn_ it." Hustler growled, shoving him back into the wall.

Butch shut his mouth up quick, staring blankly at the hustler. Francis thought for a moment he broke him, thought maybe he had been too harsh. But then something strange happened. Butch's face went from blank to near manic, his mouth splitting into a wolfish grin. Perhaps strangest of all, Butch – the committed man with a girlfriend of barely a month – leaned forward and kissed the waiting hustler.

All at once, Francis gave into it. He hadn't expected this, not at all. He had expected Butch to wrinkle his nose or throw a fit. He had expected Butch to call him a sick fuck and try to fight. He had expected a nervous little laugh, after which Francis would join him in a chuckled and he'd be let off the hook, on the condition he come by later and pay off his tab with interest. He had not expected to be smiled at like that, to see that look in Butch's eye like he did in the alley, before they almost kissed the last time. He certainly did not expect Butch to kiss him, though he was loath to complain about it now. He was far too stunned to do much of anything but hold the other male and kiss him back.

"My mouth to better use, huh?" Butch purred as he pulled back, "You mean like this?"

No, he hadn't, actually. He had meant nothing like this. What Francis had meant was more product placement, actually. More of him selling, of Butch pushing his products and being a good little salesman himself, maybe even a mention or two of his stuff in Butch's captivating stories. He waned to see Butch more, was all. It was weird not being stalked by the smoky-shadow. He didn't like that girl monopolizing Butch's time. Sure his sales were suffering, but he wanted company more than anything.

But that did not stop Francis from nodding his head and saying; "Yeah, somethin' like that."  
"Not quite what you wanted?"  
"Didn't say that…"  
"Mmkay. Let's try something different."

Butch wasn't sure why he was reacting this way, why he was acting like this, or why he was suddenly so willing to be… this way. He had decided, hadn't he? That this was a problem, something that shouldn't be happening, and something that would run the both of them? At least, Butch thought he remembered _something_ along the lines of him and Fran's reputation being on the line, but he couldn't recall anything about this feeling bad or wrong.

That being said, he was a little shocked to find himself sinking to his knees in front of the hustler liberally stroking the front of his pants and looking up with a cocky smile at Fran's flushed face.

Francis bit his lip, sucking in a soft breath and looking around. He was… there was something so strange about all of this. A good strange, but strange all the same. It seemed Butch never ceased to surprise him. It bothered the hustler that he was doing this at all, though. Could he really swing both ways? Could he be looking for a new story, or using him for experimental purposes, never to speak of this again? Maybe he was already in debt and figured this was the cheapest way to get out of it. Regardless, Francis found himself looking down at Butch while he rubbed, feeling some familiar tingle crawl up his legs right beneath Butch's hand.

"You really gunnin for this, huh?" Francis murmured, placing a shaky hand on Butch's head to steady himself.  
"You offered, an' I don't wanna get strung up by my fingernails."  
"You…" Francis stopped himself. He almost told Butch – he almost said 'you don't have to' "You done this before?"  
"Another story for another day, Franny." Butch dismissed, bored of stroking and digging his way into the hustler's coat.  
"Hey - watch the merchandise!" Francis hissed quietly, watching a few train tickets and hall passes flutter to the ground around Butch's knees.  
"You better watch it or a certain item's gonna be damaged beyond repair." Butch warned, fiddling with Fran's belt.  
"Alright aright just…."

The hustler's voice died away, his mouth turning cottony. He was too occupied with watching Butch carefully work his way through his clothing to form words. Butch was glad – he didn't want his credibility called into question. He was nervous enough as it was. He had no goddamn idea what he was doing or why but some large part of him really wanted him to do it so who was he to question this weird craving? All he had to go on were the snowy old tapes he stole from Joey's closet and the occasional porn site. He hoped to hell and back that would be enough.

Francis seemed to appreciate his awkward fumbling though. He didn't make much noise -which pissed Butch off a little – but he did exhale a lot louder and lean forward into the wall. It amused Butch that, while HK leaned forward, putting his arm up to keep from scraping his face against the wall, the hustling coat draped forward, blocking Butch in. He chuckled. Even if he was mostly hidden, his bent legs and the telltale little noises were still clear, and a bit of thick fabric wasn't going to help hide anything.

Butch chanced a glance up at the hustler, who looked right back down at him. He wasn't the screwed up, flushing, panting and moaning wreck Butch saw in all those tapes. He looked rather calm, if not a bit blank and red in the face. It bothered him, but he turned his eyes back to the task at hand, watching in slight amazement as Francis reacted to his touch. It wasn't spectacular – he had one of these, he knew how it worked and what his main objective was. But it was strange to think of anyone else reacting to the same kind of movement and stroke. The thought made him pause – well, that thought and the much larger overall scenario of him on his knees stroking Fran's dick in a back alley.

"Getting cold feet?" Francis suddenly rasped, keeping his voice low and even, only wincing a little when Butch stroked harder in retaliation. "Okay okay… just be… careful. Okay?"

Butch eyed him for a moment, holding his smirk in check at Fran's lack of eloquence. He continued to stroke him a bit longer before he gathered up the courage and will to at least attempt what he figured Fran had in mind. He looked around at the glittering watches and hard drives and watches that doubled as hard drives winking in the muted light. For some reason the useless junk made him feel better, and he leaned forward to have himself a taste.

Francis hissed, and that made Butch pull back and look up. He was hoping he hadn't done something wrong, but he found quite the opposite. In fact he even goaded a reaction from the hustler, who in that moment of weakness squeezed his eyes shut and exhaled loudly. Taking it as a personal victory, Butch did it again, and was gifted the same forced exhale. He smiled cockily up at the hunched over hustler, waiting for him to open his eyes before he did anything else, just to make sure he knew how good of a job he was doing.

"What are you waiting for?" Francis asked him, looking down with cloudy but focused eyes, his voice still infuriatingly even "G-Go on."

Butch frowned a little but continued, glancing up to watch Fran's face screw up and his eyes slide shut It gave him satisfaction for some reason, to know he had this kind of effect on the normally stoic male. And it wasn't even really all that labor intensive on his part. In exchange for complete and total power over the school's best hustler all he had to do was endure the state of skin and salt and the somewhat crippling fear of discovery. It seemed like a fair enough tradeoff to Butch.

But what fun was life if one didn't take risks?

Though Butch was more than sure he had Fran pegged, it bothered him he wasn't moaning or exhaling louder or even grabbing his hair hard enough to make his head hurt. It was all too comfortable, so he figured it was time to shake things up a bit. With some measure of trepidation he slipped the head of his cock into his mouth. He figured that it wouldn't suddenly taste worse (kind of like he did with vegetables) and once it was in he was good to go. However, unlike veggies he couldn't just swallow it down (well he _could_ – but he wasn't anywhere near proficient in that particular skill set- him not being a whore and all), so the object where there to stay. Once the realization kicked in it was quickly followed by the bigger picture, and Butch was glad for two things: the darkness of the alley and Fran's closed eyes to hide the sudden heat in his face and his lack of a gag reflex.

This being said, Francis was more than pleased with Butch's… performance. He was doing quite well for what Francis could only assume was his first time. He couldn't really think of much to do other than breathe deeply and grip Butch's oddly soft hair, guiding him closer to his torso. At this point Francis was almost sure he could have bitten though his lip. This wasn't his first, but the fact it was _Butch_ and he was doing so _well_ made his gut twist and churn so pleasantly it was taking everything he had not to outright moan. He was getting closer and closer the more Butch moved his mouth or hand or tongue. The hustler choked on his newest breath, his eyes screwing shut tight while he fought for composure. He was losing. Badly. It wouldn't be long. His fingers twitched over Butch's scalp, his eyes shut so hard he saw white, breathed heavily though his nose and then Butch _moaned_ around him and he couldn't-

Francis shoved Butch's head away, knocking him over on his side. Butch recovered quickly and got to his feet, dusting off his knees and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He stretched, watching Francis hunch over himself, leaning heavily against the wall. Butch thought of giving him a bit of privacy, but it wasn't nothin' he hadn't seen or done before, so he looked on. There wasn't really much to see. Francis' hand and anatomy were blocked by his coat. He barely moved, his face was hidden, and all that came out of him was a grunt before he slumped. Butch was disappointed at the lack of show, but he shrugged and reached for a cigarette. Finding none, he frowned, and turned to leave. Maybe if he got out of here then Francis wouldn't come to his senses and still want to beat him up.

Before he could though, the hustler tapped his shoulder. When Butch turned he was gifted with a pack of cigs and a much calmer, more relaxed looking Francis. Butch smiled a little, slipping one of the skinny sticks out of the pack and lighting it. Fran smiled back and Butch, somehow finding this whole thing funny (if not a bit disturbing) tried to get at least one of the last words in.

"Debt clear?" Butch asked.  
"Debt clear." Hustler affirmed "Pleasure doing business with you."

* * *

**Oh goodness me oh my. Whatever will happen now that this happened? **  
**I dunno. Haven't written it yet. Ill get back to you.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	8. Flip Floped

**Hey everyone! Short update. More of a filler anyhow. Next chapter is going to take a while to churn out because it's going to be MAJOR INTENSE. Also one of those M ones. Just forewarning you.**

**Short and a smattering of sad. That's how this pairing seems to roll.**

**Enjoy!**  


* * *

Francis had been doing quite a bit of thinking since that day in the alley.

At first it was nothing. Just a twinge of memory that helped him get off, blended with all the others. But the more he saw the storyteller the more the recollection of that day pushed its way to the forefront of his thoughts. What's more, the more he seemed to _see_ Butch, the less time he actually _spent _with Butch. It was perplexing – but with school and work and other engagements (Butch's girlfriend) their lives were more or less tied up. And the more Francis came to realize this, the worse he felt.

He had run into them today. Butch barely noticed. He lifted his bi-haired head, smiled a little, and waved. Francis returned the gestures hurriedly and turned before the girl at Butch's side had time to do the same. He was sure he felt eyes on his back, watching him leave, but when he peeked around the corner of the alley he ducked into he saw well enough that he was already forgotten. It made his chest hurt unnaturally to the point he thought he might have had a stroke - but he was much too rational for that.

This being said, Francis was a bit of a wreck. This whole instance bothered him much more than it should have. It stuck under his skin and wormed around his gut and bored into his brain and wouldn't let him alone even if he begged. It was peculiar and horrifying, the way he was so stuck on horror-fanatic. He was captivated for no reason. The more he was left alone with his thoughts the more he desperate he became.

It wasn't just a want anymore; it was a need.

That more than anything horrified the hustler. He couldn't remember /needing/ anything in the longest time, and even if he had needed something he got it without much thought. This… this was an entirely different manner. He wondered if it was just because he couldn't get it and he was just being a spoiled brat – wanting what he couldn't have. But not-so-deep down he knew it wasn't true. This was a peculiarity he couldn't explain and couldn't write off, not with it being so goddamned persistent. And it scared him how sudden, how strong this hold on him was.

The fact that he needed Butch so desperately, wanted to see him so badly it made him physically ache – it wasn't good. It couldn't be healthy. There was no way it was normal for him, to feel this incredible gut churning _desire_ grip him so completely it made him unable to think. It wasn't good. It wasn't _right_ for him to _want_ like this.

So he sought out other… sources.

"Hey there, big boy." She cooed, sliding up and around him "I was hoping you'd come by… thought you forgot about little ol' me."  
"Never."  
"Flatterer." He breathed softly into his ear, her slim hand sliding over his broad chest. "Let's go."

And he obeyed, following her swinging hips and her coy smile and expensive perfume without another word, feeling hollow but fulfilled.

O/O

Butch was having a pretty okay day. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, he'd scared the hell out of a few kids with his story and he had a date lined up for that night. Things were going pretty okay, even by Butch's usually pessimistic standards. Only trouble was he was getting kind of hungry, and he was low on cash, so he had to go to the crappy Deli instead of Kelso's. A bit of an inconvenience, but nothing spectacularly bad – certainly nothing to outright bitch and moan over.

Shrugging to himself and taking the liberty of cutting through a few backyards of people he didn't know, Butch made his way to the cheap place downtown. He hopped a fence and nearly crashed into a few garbage cans. Being the graceful and selfless guy he was, Butch righted them and looked around to make sure he wasn't spotted being clumsy. He was about to carry on, but then he heard something. He squinted into the mostly-shaded alley and saw nothing.

But now Butch was curious. And he had to know what the noise was or he was going to think of something horrible – but then again that wasn't all that horrible of an outcome either. He was running a bit low idea wise. An alley-dwelling monster might just be the thing to scare the next batch of kids. Curiosity had a rare victory over new story material, and off Butch went, hunting for the monster he was already making up in his head. He searched around dumpster, pausing and skittering around and pausing again, listening for the scraping, ruffled noises drifting around the alley. Butch eventually determined that the noises weren't coming from this alley, so he checked the next alley over.

It took a few minutes for him to register what he was seeing.

Butch started from the top. He clearly saw two brunette haired heads thought he couldn't quite see the faces that went with them. One was male, taller, blocked by a curly mass of piled-on, styled hair. There was quite a bit of tanned, smooth skin beneath larger, paler hands that freely roamed their expanse. There was a flash of red over which the thick fingers skimmed, backed by a solid mass of grey. The noises were coming from there. Whatever they were –human bodies, Butch fancied – they were moving and writhing there against the old wall, half hidden from sight but out there in the open.

He watched Francis as he leaned down, whispering softly into the mass of curly brown hair and a delicate ear while Butch looked at him but not _at_ him. The hustler smiled, his lips and fingers pressing to skin while the opposite body wiggled impatiently and he realized that her panties were tangled around her knees. Butch gaped and somehow made his brain work long enough so he could force some sense out of the situation. His eyes darted around every which way like a spooked, caged bird. He didn't know where to look or even _why_ he was still looking. Aside from it being a very private moment this was _Francis_ and _an Ashley_ and Butch was more than sure that he was never ever supposed to have seen this.

But as luck and all coincidence would have it, just as Butch was going to vanish into the adjoining alley and forget this ever happened, Francis lifted his head and their eyes locked, and the image of Francis with his arms wrapped around Ashley T, kissing her and holding her and doing things to her was burned into his memory forever.

Butch fled before anything else could go wrong, some indescribable ache in his chest wailing at his ribcage. His mind was blissfully blank as he ran, guiding him home on autopilot. It remained that way until he was home free, and even then Butch crushed whatever thought was in his head with a movie he knew by heart, mouthing every line silently until there were no more lines to speak.

O/O

Joey came home that weekend expecting a quiet schoolwork reprieve sprinkled with long overdue little brother taunting. What he found was a mostly empty house and a very occupied basement, lorded over by the creepy brooding phantom that was Butch. After the drive home he was in no mood to fight for his old room (which was just as well, Butch didn't seem to be in a talking mood anyhow), so he hid in the upstairs guest room for about a day or so.

Joey ventured out quite a bit, checking around the town and meeting up with old pals. It stuck him odd that he hadn't seen hide nor hair of Butch for the past couple of days. He was hoping to at least get one jab in before he had to go back to school. No sooner had he thought of venturing into the basement one morning did Butch magically appear. It startled the hell out of him, actually, seeing Butch look like that. He seemed more screwed up, more weird and out of it than usual.

"Morning." He greeted  
"…Hey."  
"Sleep well, little brother?"  
"Hm? Oh. Yeah. How's life?"  
"Ain't bad. Yours?"  
"Mm."

The elder brother sat at the table in silence for a few moments. He looked at Butch, who looked at a fixed place on the table. Joey looked back at the clock on the wall and saw it was actually noon, which explained why Butch was out and about at this point. For some unfathomable reason Butch looked to Joey like a man who had just lost everything. But he shook his head and decided Butch was either hung over or being a ball of teenage angst, so he got them both a soda and sat back down.

"Mom tells me you gotta girlfriend." Joey said, a slight tilt to his voice when he offered the soda.  
"Had." Butch corrected. "_Had_ a girlfriend."  
"What happened?"  
"We broke up." Butch muttered "She… she said I wasn't what she thought I was."  
"Mm. Girl code for she found someone else to fuck."  
"I guess."  
"You gonna be alright?" Joey asked after a moment, watching his brother nurse a soda like someone would nurse a scotch "What was her name, anyhow?"

Butch paused, swirling the soda bottle a little. Joey waited in the uncomfortable silence. Sometimes he worried about his little brother. He was a strange kid – to be honest Joey wasn't even sure if what Mom said was true. He thought his little bro had hooked up with that big guy who sold weird stuff - that guy who he caught Butch sleeping on top of a little while back. The younger didn't ring the straight bell too loud – he turned grey spying on him kiss his girlfriend that one time. But Mom was usually right about these things, and Butch did admit to having one, even if it was taking a long time for him to remember the name. Wound too fresh, maybe?

But, just as Joey was thinking that maybe, just this once, he was wrong about something, Butch turned to him. He smiled a little, awkwardly, maybe a little sadly, and took a gulp or two of the soda.

"You know…" Butch said, "I don't think I could tell you if I tried."

* * *

**See? You guys worried about that nameless chick for nothing! Oh... wait. Now Butch is sad. I made everything realy sad for him, didn't I? Sorry Butch! **  
**(I'd like to say it gets better soon but ehhh not really.) **

**On an alternate note this chapter was pretty much written with "Like a G6" on repeat so it's it's cracktastic then that's probably why.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	9. Thin Dark Line

**Oh boy, this took a while. The next one will probably take a little longer what with school coming to an end really damn soon and me being _exceptionally lethargic_.**

**Hey, just putting it out there – this is one of those 'M' chapters again. It gets kinda rough so yeah, if you're not into that kind of thing just let it sit for a while til the next chapter goes up. The one after this will be less… dubious consent-y.**

**And because I'm a butt and forget things easily, allow me to direct your attention (before I forget again) to another awesome fic by NekoMXR:**

**((http:/ / s/ 6348817/1/ Favourite_ Things))**

**Just remove the spaces and you're there! I highly recommend account of it's _made of awesome_.**

**Enjoy  


* * *

**

It hadn't worked. He wasn't sure why it hadn't worked, but it _hadn't_ and it _bothered_ him. Normally sex worked. It made things less complicated. The act itself was less complicated. It was pleasure, pure and simple. There wasn't thinking involved and the result made him feel good with no consequences. It had never failed him before. But this time it did. And it made Francis angry and upset that he couldn't for the life of him figure it out.

Lying on his bed, Francis sighed, looking at the ceiling. He couldn't get over it. Usually sex calmed him down, made him balanced again – especially with Ashley T. She never asked questions and willingly gave up whatever he wanted. But something about it felt… wrong. Out of place. He didn't find as much pleasure in it as he usually did. What's more, he thought he saw Butch for just a split second, looking at him with this _face_…

The hustler turned over on his bed and shut his eyes, trying to erase that look. It burned behind his lids and for some unfathomable reason he felt ashamed. He felt a whine rise in his throat and bounce around his mouth but he wouldn't voice it. That was an indignity he would not let himself suffer. For now, he'd just rest and pretend it had worked, and get some rest.

Needless to say, that tactic failed entirely.

O/O

To their credit, they did a remarkable job or avoiding each other. It wasn't particularly hard, not was it especially easy. School gifted them many excuses and reasons to be apart from each other – all of which they snapped up and used greedily.

But there came the time when even the best-laid plans went to waste.

It happened one afternoon after school had let out. There was something going on, some sort of event not too far away neither boy cared for but was curious about – Francis for business reasons and Butch for story opportunities. Still, they hung back, waiting for stragglers in the otherwise empty streets. Other students floated around for various reasons, crisscrossing over the storyteller territory and the hustler terf, unaware of the imaginary boundaries.

Butch, for the most part, stuck to his shadows. He felt sick. His mother said he caught something and he was inclined to believe her. His head hurt, his chest was tight, and he had to lumber around slowly to keep from vomiting on the ground. He felt like a wreck and hadn't stopped feeling terrible since he saw what he shouldn't have seen. He told himself they were not related events, but something in the back of his mind kept telling him they were. He was upset and sick over what he saw. The fact he cared bothered him more than the image burned into his brain. At least the hustler hadn't tried to talk to him.

He ventured out into the light, stumbling around in his quest for one of the water fountains scattered around. He just needed a drink or some water to splash on his face. Then he'd feel well enough to toddle back home. He'd lay back in the dark, maybe watch a movie, and he'd try to forget again.

A chorus of "Scandalous!" stopped him in his tracks.

Leaning heavily against the old brick of the High School. He looked around, dazed, his eyes settling on the Ashley's as they floated past him. Ashley T in particular. She looked so perfect among them. Normal and rich and perfect as they always were. But Butch could only see smears of _her_-

"Like, hello?"  
_-red and dark and half-shadowed, -  
_"Like, what do you want?"  
_-blocked by large, rough-but-smooth hands -  
_"Okay, like, seriously. You're being really creepy."  
_-roaming over the expanse of skin and skin tight fabric-  
_"Like Helloooo?"  
"Uh- what?" Butch looked up at Ashley T, who was glowering at him, her hands on his hips, her three BFF's fanned out behind her.  
"What are you, like, staring at?"  
"Ah… you fo-" Butch coughed and convinced himself it was the illness talking and making him see things "Nothing."  
"I'm like, so sure."

The group of them wandered off; talking behind his back he was sure. Butch watched them go, feeling far worse for wear. He ducked back into the ally, hoping to settle his stomach before anything else humiliating happened that day.

With no such luck, it seemed.

Francis had spotted Butch and The Ashley's fanned out around him. Ashley T was at the head, and Butch looked kind of ill. At first he attempted to write it off as nothing. But then he saw the look on Butch's face past his newest customer. He babbled through the transaction, tying to get a better look. By the time he shoved the change into the chump's hand the girls had scattered and Butch had limped into the ally. Francis began to panic. That look on his face was identical to the one he thought he imagined. He began to think maybe, just maybe he hadn't been seeing things, that Butch wasn't just an image he cooked up to try and deter himself.

Butch was very real, he realized, and he had just talked to Ashley T.

Francis dashed over to Butch, skidding into the alley and blocking his path back into the light. The storyteller blinked at him, looking almost through him. The hustler tried desperately to keep his attention – but more than that grab Butch's attention in the first place. Once he had it he laid his hand on Butch's shoulder for a moment. They both recoiled, and Francis searched for words while Butch held his stomach tenderly and finally seemed to notice him.

"We need to talk." He said, hustling the other male into the alley he was half hanging out of "Now. Now please."  
"Wha-"  
"Don't talk to her." Francis interrupted once they were in deep enough "It's a bad idea just leave her be."  
"Why?"  
"Just don't."

Butch eyed him for a moment. The images had been playing over in his head like movie fragments. Slowly and stretched out and repeating like those old film reels. It was wrapped around his head, buried in his mind. For some reason he couldn't focus. But then, for some reason, Francis had put his hand on Butch's shoulder again and that trance-like state he was in moments ago vanished, replaced by a sudden swelling of fury unmatched. He we so damned _angry_ and Francis for so many reasons he couldn't even begin to name them all. His teeth grit his face burned and all the nausea and pain he felt before turned to rage and a tightening in his chest that made him want to _hit_.

Basically put, Butch exploded.

"Fuck you! I'll talk to whoever I fucking want to!" He shouted, throwing the hustler's hand off his shoulder.

The hustler blinked, taken aback. He hadn't expected this – not from anyone. No one crossed him like that. No one ever, _ever_ refused him before. It baffled him for a few moments. But once that confusion passed it was replaced quite easily with anger. Though he didn't like to be angry and violent, he was really rather good at it. It wasn't his main bargaining chip but with both fists clenched and a boiled temper it was his best offense and defense all wrapped into one. Point was, he didn't like it, but it worked like a charm.

So Francis hit him, his fist suddenly connecting with the corner of Butch's jaw and sending him reeling back.

"Don't you ever say that to me again." He growled, looming over him, wiping off his knuckles and shaking his hand out.  
"What the fuck, you son of a bitch!" Butch snarled, wiping the blood from his mouth, staggering back. His dark eyes bored holes into him, but Hustler stared right back, his fist already clenched for another hit. "I'm not you're fuckin' property, douchebag!"

Hustler rushed at him again, shouldering him into the wall. If he wasn't his property, then why did he fucking _care_ so much? He quickly pushed the though from his mind, deciding that he was just getting even for being insulted. Nothing more, nothing less. Butch boxed his ear and made him move away, but it did little to stop the onslaught. Francis kept him in his sights at all times, his hands balled up tight.

"I'm not your fucking property I'll do whatever the fuck I please!" Butch panted, a slow smirk forming over his lips "Or _who _ever. And you can't stop me, just like I can't stop you."  
"What are you talking about-"  
"I saw you. In the alley. With her – fucking _whore_. What, you just bang whatever? Was I just another notch in your belt?"  
"What do you care?" He smirked "You should be _honored_."

The flash of rage was almost imperceptible Butch reacted so quickly. A second after Butch's teeth set together his fist was planted in the center of the hustler's face, crushing his nose with surprising strength. Francis grunted, stepping back, managing to knock the smaller male away before he landed another hit. He touched his nose gingerly inspecting for blood. Butch wisely backed off, both his fists up and crouching down, caught between fight and flight.

"You're fucking dead." HK growled, his eyes going dark "_Dead._"

Butch stayed silent, crouching lower as the building-shaped male advanced on him, blocking his only escape. The storyteller supposed he could scream for help, but there was unreliable means of getting out of here alive, and he was sure it would only piss the hustler off. So Butch kept quiet for the moment, darting around the lumbering hustler, avoiding some hits and landing a few good ones to the side until he was backed up against the wall. Butch felt along the brick with a grimace – something the hustler picked up on. He smirked and Butch knew he was going to make good on his promise.

He defended himself as best as he could. He did a damned awful job of it but he did what he could. His lip was bleeding and his was a panting, ugly looking mess when an idea struck him. He eyed the angry male, sporting a bruise on his cheek and a busted lip of his own. His nose was beginning to bleed slowly from the second shot Butch managed to get in. Francis frowned and spit, swinging wide. It clipped Butch's shoulder but missed his head.

It was now or never, Butch decided, and he made his move.

The smaller, lighter male was able to dodge. By some miracle he managed to grab the huge fist before it impacted his face, his mouth brushing over its knuckles. Francis did not react well. Butch was easy to pin. Butch knew this and he let the hustler hold him fast and slam him into the wall. He winced, somehow able to keep from cracking his head open on the brick. He looked at the hustler, grimacing at the darkened, furious expression.

_Now or never._

Butch gulped, leaning forward and kissing his mouth this time. A gentle little peck. Some part of him screamed, tugging out his hair and demanding an answer. Butch cold only come up with half of one. He had read somewhere that the strong emotions – fear, anger, and passion – made the body react in the same way. Elevated heartbeat, shortness of breath, increased blood flow, trembling, dilated pupils – all of it was applicable to any one of them. By logic, then, they were all interchangeable. Butch had bet on this distracting him – it was familiar but foreign and it could, if anything, throw him off long enough so he could limp away and hide.

It had a slightly different effect than he had anticipated.

The initial contact was met with nothing. Francis maybe blinked but Butch wasn't able to catch it. He pulled back and mentally prepared himself for a hit while he scrambled along the wall, looking for something to grab so he could propel himself out. The hustler held him, however, and the moments stretched on. Butch grew worried – this was either very good or very bad. For a moment the hold slackened, and Butch immediately attempted to wiggle free. Francis pressed him back to the wall – though this time much gentler. For a few moments the hustler just stared at the pinned storyteller, and the storyteller stared back.

Then, all at once, Francis smothered him against the wall, kissing him.

It wasn't gentle like Butch's. It was hard and heated, bruising and angry. It aggravated his bloody lip to the point where Butch could taste it between them, on his tongue and the hustler's. He inhaled, trying to make sense of it, trying to get oxygen back into his body. He was greeted with the smell of blood and that aftershave Francis used and the thick fabric of his coat. It filled his head and made him moan against his will. Francis must have been suffering the same affliction, for not a second later the guttural noise was returned, echoing around in his mouth. The noises bounced around them, wrapping around them like a cocoon. There was nothing else, no other sound except for their breathing and their heartbeats pounding in their veins and the thrumming heat around them.

Butch decided this wasn't the outcome he had expected, but he could sure as hell work with it. He lifted his arms a little, sliding them up Francis' sides, testing the waters. There was no real reaction aside from a short falter preceding another rough kiss. Butch gripped the back of his thick coat and Francis made another half choked sound, biting the bloody lip and forcing his way in. Butch wasn't in much of a place to argue though his head was scraping against the brick and the hustler's knee was in his hip and starting to hurt. Still, though, he kind of liked it, whatever this was.

Francis let him up for a moment, still breathing heavy, his eyes mostly closed. Butch watched him lick his lips and he gulped. For an instant Fran seemed like a hungry beast, a monster ready to devour him. No sooner had he thought this idea preposterous did Francis swoop down on him again, sucking his breath from his lungs. He felt more than saw, his eyes sliding shut at the hustler's insistent tongue forcing its way back into his mouth. Butch gasped and cling to his coat, something surging in him, wanting more. He knew he shouldn't want to be thrown up against the wall and roughed up and kissed like this – or ever, really. Much less by Francis.

But he did.

They kissed for a while, pressed up against each other, each moment growing more frantic than the rest. Neither was sure who rolled or pressed or ground against the other first first, but one of them did and the floodgates opened. Suddenly a lot more than kissing was happening and Butch was pressed hard enough against the brick to slide his legs around Francis' waist without fear of breaking contact. Even if there was the slightest risk Francis was holding him tight enough around the middle to hurt his ribs while his other hand fisted tight in Butch's longish hair. Butch did his part by rolling his hips when the thought occurred and digging his fingers hard enough into the thick coat to make them turn white.

Francis suddenly groped the other male, pulling his mouth from Butch's to instead fasten it along his jaw and neck while the hand that held his back firmly grabbed his ass. Butch keened quietly, almost shouting but thinking better of it. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to decide how he felt about how this was going. He liked the mouth on his neck – that was good. The tongue tracing over his scars and the teeth that were most certainly leaving a mark were less okay – but they were pretty good. The hand on his ass was the most confusing one – he didn't like it but he did all at the same time. He did end up liking it a little more when it pulled him in, grinding their hips together, giving him more of that friction. Butch knew for sure he liked the friction. He knew Francis liked it too from the way he moaned. Purely by accident he also found out that Fran liked his ears being touched and played with so he kept on abusing the hell out of that particular piece of anatomy while squirming as much as he could.

Then suddenly even all of that wasn't enough. They stopped for a moment, hesitating, not sure what to do. Francis picked up first, forcing Butch off of him with a rough shove, rubbing him against the brick. Once Butch's feet were on the ground Francis kissed him again, reaching between them. He gripped the tent in Butch's pants and stroked until he moaned into his coat, gripping it and burying his face in its folds. Francis grunted and pushed him into the wall, rubbing against him again. Just as Butch had grown used to the hardness pressing into his stomach a heavy hand landed on his shoulder, not so gently turning him around. In the span of a few seconds Butch went from moaning to stunned silence. Before he could make a noise, however, Francis' hand covered his mouth and the other was rubbing his dick again. The pinned male whined softly behind the large hand, wiggling in the hustler's grip as his top half was pressed to the rough wall, the bottom half drawn back against the hustler's hips.

Butch's breath hitched, not okay with the whole situation. He panicked, for a moment going impossibly stiff and gripping the wall, almost frightened about what was going on. Francis paused, breathing heavily in his ear, grounding Butch back to reality long enough to quell his panic. Butch heard the clink of his belt, feeling the hustler's hand belatedly pull at his waist, but felt no other movement. He exhaled the held breath, trying not to bolt, trying not to make a noise. He didn't think he wanted this but at the same time he really, _really_ did. It was so bizarre, this strange mix of feelings, and he didn't want to pull some bullshit after the fact and make things even worse than they already were. He knew he liked what they were doing before, and he knew he liked what Fran was doing now, rubbing him and thrusting against him from behind like this and breathing heavily in his ear, nipping his neck. He wasn't sure if he was going to like what was coming next, but he did know he wanted more.

So with a broken groan and all second thoughts damned to hell, he looked over his shoulder and nodded, biting his lip.

Francis eyed him quietly, stopping everything for a minute. He almost smiled, Butch thought, but a second later it was hidden from sight, buried into his neck, latched onto his scars. Butch stifled his groan, almost growled while the hustler manhandled him. He shivered, everything slowing down and speeding up at once. Francis knew what he was doing, and Butch was fearful again. Francis took note of it, everything thrumming on high now that he had been given the go ahead. He knew what to do; it was just a matter of keeping Butch still enough to do it. To start he drew his hand around the still stiff cock in his hand and rubbed the tip, sliding the cotton of his boxers over the head – toying with him. He waited until Butch was puffing breath against his palm before removing his hand for a moment, pushing down the pants and boxers just enough so they were out of the way.

Butch hitched and whined, suddenly snapping to attention. Before the noise could echo Francis slapped his hand over Butch's mouth and used the other to toy with his prick. In a moment Butch relaxed again and Francis kissed and nipped the side of his neck, trying to keep him from screaming or making a noise that would make him thing. His conscious was quietly slipping away, instinct was taking over, and this was the thrill he had missed days previous with Ashley T. If he had been in the right mind to think Francis would have surely stopped, horrified that he was feeling this way with _Butch_ of all people, but as it was he couldn't really think, banking on sensation only.

The hustler pinned him to the wall for a moment, squeezing his dick and stroking him a few times. When Butch opened his mouth to moan he pressed his fingers into the hot, wet mouth. Butch choked, trying to spit them out. Francis hissed in his ear, mumbling something he couldn't even remember but it made Butch stop and whine a little and accept the digits squirming around in his mouth. Once Butch relaxed enough the hustler stroked, bringing him back to throbbing in his grip. The storyteller wriggled and squirmed, bucking into his hand, sucking on the now three fingers in his mouth. The next part was going to be harder to pull off and required a great deal of forethought before action.

But who was he to think at a time like this?

He stroked Butch a few more times to keep him from wiggling too much, then pulled his hand away to unclip his belt and unzip his fly. Butch seemed to freeze, and the hustler pressed few open-mouthed kisses to the still unmarked part of his neck until he became pliant again. Francis pulled his fingers gently from Butch's lips, wincing a little at the whimper that came out with it. He exhaled against the pale, damp neck and steadied himself. He groaned a little, feeling Butch pant and wheeze, shuddering against him so perfectly that when he exhaled again he let a moan slip out with it.

Butch's head spun and he choked on the thick air. This was the most horrifying, stupid, ill advised, sickening, irresponsible act he could ever hope to do, but he couldn't bring himself to stop it. At the vey core of it was curiosity, his body knowing but his mind not sure - though he was almost certain the mechanics of it. More importantly, as hard as it was for him to admit, he really wanted more. His whole body throbbed and pulsed and ached for what it knew was coming. He couldn't make himself say stop, but he could gasp violently and almost scream when he felt something cold and slick press against him.

While Butch had been thinking, Francis had been doing. He had slipped a bottle from his coat and covered his fingers more thoroughly than Butch had. Then Butch had tightened up, almost screaming. Francis clapped a hand over his mouth and growled wordlessly at him, pressing a finger into him as slowly as his clouded senses would allow. The other male whined in discomfort, puffing and panting against the rough palm. Francis tried not to pay too much attention. Soon the pain would end and he'd feel better than he'd ever hoped to feel. It was going to hurt, yes - but it would get better. He thought about telling Butch all of this, but the words wouldn't form. Instead he moved his hand, sliding in and out and holding Butch's noises in until they became less pained and more tolerant.

Butch squeezed his eyes shut, whimpering pitifully. He was in pain and everything ached but sill, even through all of this he wanted more. He kind of hated himself for it, but if Francis didn't touch him or move or make this pain go away he was going to lose his damned mind. Butch let a ragged shout tear from his throat, blocked but the hustler's hand. He breathed heavily against it, trying to move, the pain overtaking everything else for a moment. Francis pushed his fingers into his mouth again, and Butch sucked and bit the digits to keep from screaming.

This went on for a few minutes, but impossibly long and drawn out to both of them. Francis tried to take his time, but Butch was wiggling and he couldn't take much more of this waiting. Still, he knew better than to just rush headlong into it, taking painfully careful measures to assure Butch was stretched and open enough to not tear and cause excessive blood and pain. The last thing he wanted to do was make this harder than it always was but he was so _ready_ he was aching and his boxers were far too tight for him to focus. Butch suckling on his fingers in an all too familiar way wasn't helping his condition.

It became clear that he wasn't going to last much longer, so with some hesitation he withdrew his fingers. He lifted himself off the burning body and watched it writhe in mid air. Francis groaned quietly, fishing a condom from his coat and tearing it open with his teeth. Leaning forward, he sunk his teeth into Butch's neck and growled, stroking himself. He couldn't understand how he was already so hard, so ready for it, but he'd rather keep from thinking and stick to action. So he pressed against him, sliding his cock against the opening. Butch didn't move or whine or make any motion otherwise to discourage him so he set the slicked hand on the other male's hip and pushed in.

Butch choked, biting down on the fingers enough to make Francis hiss in pain. He went completely rigid, shaking almost in the intensity of it. Oh_ fuck_ it _hurt,_ it hurt really badly and for a few inexplicably long moments it felt like he was being torn in two. When he opened his eyes again he was shaking and everything was blurred. He sobbed, trying instead to focus on the larger, more pleasurable hand on his dick than the searing in his ass. He unset his jaw and the fingers moved in his mouth. He didn't taste blood but he felt hot breath and tears on his face and everything else inside him causing him pain.

After a short while, though, something remarkable happened. Butch began to notice, between sniffling and hitched breaths that the pain was subsiding. There was a bit of a sting but Francis was moving inside him and it actually felt pretty good combined with hand on his prick. With some measure of trepidation he tried moving too, pushing back into the large body that was oddly comforting in its size. He felt swallowed up by the other man – the coat covering his outside and the body consuming him from both ends. It didn't feel as good as he had hoped, the dull stinging sensation still prickling his nerves – but it felt progressively better and he stopped tearing up so much, even though Francis had apparently forgone the idea of slow and steady in place of fast and hard.

Between the grunts and biting and groaning and half-choked sobs there was something coiling up in both of them. This thin line between pain and pleasure got them off better than they could ever remember. Francis was doing a pretty good job of keeping Butch in the thick of things, his hand stroking somewhat in time with his thrusts. It was enough to make Butch feel better, and with Butch feeling all right Francis was free to keep it up. They moaned, grunted, whined and growled, swirling around something but not quite there. It built and built and built the faster they went. Francis made ugly, guttural noises and Butch whimpered and gasped, completely falling to his whim.

Moments ticked by, dripping like honey. Movements became more frantic. Breath and heartbeat rose impossibly high. A swell rose, dangling above them, holding them in place until the hustler brought it down, a ragged moan spilling from his throat onto Butch's shirt while he spent himself thrust deep inside. Butch whimpered, still stuck on the ledge until Francis moves his hand again. He slipped the fingers from Butch's mouth in his haze and took up one hand pressing desperately against the wall in an attempt to push his body against the larger males. Francis grabbed that hand tightly, stroked him hard, and that was all he needed. Butch clenched his teeth together and let his head drop low, his other hand clapped over his mouth, stifling his cry as he came in the hustler's hand.

For a long while everything was still. Except for breathing, the halted rise and fall of lungs, there was not movement or noise. Butch felt a dull ache creep up over him, but he shut his eyes and tried not to think about it. Little by little motion began, bodies reawakening in the wake of what just happened. Francis clenched and unclenched his bitten fingers, his head resting heavily on Butch's shoulder. He turned his face away from Butch's neck, sucking in deep lungfuls of air. Butch let his hand drop away from his face to do the same, his one arm hanging limp at his side.

Butch looked up at the hand gripping his, forcing his palm into the rough brick. He studied it, watching the darker, larger fingers twitch. They were laced with his, bent in the spaces between his fingers. The tips of them reached the middle of his palm, lifting up some of it, blocking some of it. The hand gripped his tightly, but not too tightly. Enough to keep him still but not enough to make his fingers turn an angry, oxygen deprived red and white. Despite the pain in everything else it made him calm to see Fran's white knuckles against his pale fingers.

When Francis pulled out Butch yelped, and the hustler's other hand flew up to cover his mouth. Butch shut his eyes and tried to remember how to think while the other male held him up, slowly moving his hand away from the panting mouth to clean them both what little he could manage. After a few minutes he let go of Butch's hand, and Butch whined softly, now mostly on his own against gravity. It was becoming increasingly apparent the hustler was more used to this than Butch could ever hope to be. A part of him was disgusted for giving in like that, but a larger part was glad Francis was there to keep him from falling.

Neither said a word. Butch whimpered a little and Francis grunted, but an actual word never passed between them. Once Butch was on his feet he wobbled a little and Francis steadied him with a hand on his shoulder. It might have occurred to them that they hadn't said _anything_ since the hustler threatened to kill aside from hissed curses and half-words. Neither of them thought about it too much, still somewhat hovering in the aftermath.

Butch was limping noticeably once they moved on. It was enough to make the hustler feel guilty and therefore comfortable enough to loop an arm around his waist and guide him out (though Butch twitched in his hold and managed to keep a red ting in his cheeks). Francis even went as far as to ease him in his car and take him home. Butch's parents were out and he assured, in a few mumbled words while he concentrated on ridding his eyes of all the evidence he cried, that he'd make something up. Butch left the car and Francis drove away, and that was the last time they so much as looked at each other.

If questioned they'd say they got into a fight with some assholes, but they were the damn winners, for sure. They wouldn't say any more, Francis simply turning to the next customer and Butch limping off into the shadows, for the simple fact they'd never had the chance to get their story straight. Even Butch, who was always fishing for a good story, kept his mouth firmly shut and his eyes turned anywhere but towards the hustler.

Francis, for his part, noticed Butch more than Butch noticed him. He took note how well the bruises healed on himself compared to the lingering ones on the smoking storyteller. He noticed the limp and soreness slowly dissipate, but he didn't think about those things for too long. Butch pretended not to take too much stock in the way people looked at him or asked questions or notice that the hustler was avoiding him. He just smoked and took some aspirin to make sitting down easier.

They healed physically, sure. The human body was remarkable that way. It remained to be seen, however, if their friendship would mend as easily as bruises and scrapes.  


* * *

**Yep. That just happened. What happens next is... well I'm not sure. It'll even out probably maybe. I'm almost sure of it. **

**Thanks for reading!**


	10. Short Deliberation

**Okay so this wasn't supposed to be here, but the next fic that I had planned left a canyon-wide gap between them so I made this totally necessary plot-expanding filler! And I bring it for you to enjoy! Enjoy the angst and excessive thought! Yes! Exclamation point!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Butch wasn't sure what to feel right now, sitting alone in his familiar basement room, an old movie playing on the even older television. Butch knew the movie practically by heart, but he wasn't really paying much attention. He wasn't focusing, trying to keep his own thoughts ambiguous because without fail they always returned to the one place he didn't want them too. He'd been doing this, like this, for a while. Sitting down still hurt marginally, but it didn't seize his spine and rattle his nerves like it did in the beginning, and even if it did he tried not to think about it.

But tonight it seemed unavoidable.

There was no one, nothing to really distract him. For an hour or so he fancied himself suffering from depression, but he knew damned well that wasn't even lightly true. He wasn't unhappy, just confused, and sitting alone in his basement brooding wasn't going to ease his confusion any.

So he tried facts. Facts were good. Indisputable truths. Butch usually disliked them, twisting them until they suited his own desires, taking the form of filthy, filthy lies. Now seemed like a really good time to do that, but he'd probably be better off sticking to truth. What had happened, exactly? He'd gotten into a fight, tried to distract the building-like hustler by kissing him (why he thought that would work he honestly had no idea), and then they had sex. But that sex had hurt, and he had been thrown up against the wall and pinned down and he shouldn't have taken it like that but he felt helpless and also kind of really liked it… didn't he?

It wasn't rape if you wanted it, after all, and Butch had _so_ wanted it. It shamed him a little how much he asked for it, how he thought of it and remembered it constantly and the feeling he got when he did recall every sordid detail. With some measure of resentment he admitted he actually wanted it to happen _again_, if not_ now_. It sickened him desperate he was to see Francis and sort this whole thing out – but he knew better. A large part of himself – self-preservation, he figured- knew he won. He had tricked the hustler out of murder into something with less deathly repercussions. Sooner or later HK would figure it out. At most, Butch figured with a sour taste in his mouth, this was just another conquest. One without bragging rights, but a conquest nonetheless.

The term 'conquest', though true, made Butch feel trampy, so he shifted his weight carefully and tried thinking it in new terms. Consensual leapt out at him. It was, really. That was the case. They both wanted it, Butch gave him permission, never took it away, and Francis acted upon those benefits. Butch thought that still made him sound like a slut.

So maybe he liked it rough? Lots of people did. The Internet said so. That didn't make him a freak – not too big of one, anyway. It made him a relatively normal freak – which was cool with him because he already _was_ one. In addition to his pessimism and angst and dark and obsession with horror he… had a kink for being thrown up against a wall and dominated til his head spun. Butch winced, immediately finding a loophole that he couldn't stitch back together: Did he like it rough or like it when _Francis_ was rough with him? To figure out the answer would need more experimentation and a lot more time and Butch was feeling up to neither at the moment. He was still a bit sore, anyhow.

Butch shook his head and tried to think of something else. Nothing came right away, but eventually he figured it was really no ones fault. Francis was given the go ahead and he did it. That was fine. He was the one who _gave_ the okay for it, so there had to be something about it he liked or wanted about the situation. He really _had_ liked it in a really strange way. It was unusual for him to just give in like that. And it wasn't like it was all bad. It just… confused him. If anything the fact neither one had been able to say anything about it bothered him more.

It figured Butch would find some way to save and kick his own ass at the same time. He scowled at the film and shut his eyes. He was in physical pain, sure, but this whole ordeal was eating him up inside. He frowned and rubbed his hands over his eyes. There was nothing more to think about now. More thought and he was sure his head would explode. He tried not to think, opening his eyes just in time to watch the credits roll past, staining the carpet white with names of people he only half recognized. Before he knew it his mind had wandered back and he wondered where Francis was right then, what he was doing, or if he remembered.

For now, Butch just eased himself into his couchbed and let his gaze settle on his phone though he told himself not to let it lie there. A few moments passed when he looked at it, willing it to buzz or ring or make any motion but it denied him, staying silent. He longed for any sign that he hadn't been forgotten for that night but it seemed the more moments passed the more he was assured that he would be alone with his thoughts.

Butch fell over on his side, curling up and holding his scars tenderly. It wasn't where he hurt but he sure as hell wasn't going to be caught holding his ass or his heart. Belatedly he reached up, grabbing his blanket and tugging it over him, set on getting some shuteye.

A minute later he reached out and grabbed his phone, bringing it under the blanket with him, just in case.

O/O

Francis looked at one of the several watched on his arm lounging about the Hustler HQ. It's been busy lately, and finally it seemed it had dropped off. He realized, leaning against the metal door, that he was bone tired. He'd done a lot of shit today, but even so he wasn't quite ready to turn in yet. Thoughts were still turning over in his head, about deals, transactions, his till, net profit. Before he realized it he'd wandered around the back, ducking in and out of white pools of light thrown down to the ground by streetlamps.

He paused though, looking around. There was a tune carried on the breeze, soft and melodic, old as the hills but that was the kind of music he liked, anyway. A few more notes and he knew the song, still more notes and he knew the voice and the body it belonged to. It took a moment for him to spot here but, lo and behold, there she was, eyeing him softly, one leg dangling over the other, perched like a delicate lady on a shipping crate.

He liked her well enough. Morgana was tall, sleek, and looked very much like someone who stepped outside of a black and white movie. No one knew if Morgana was her real name or one she adopted for her business, but she carried herself with elegance from years ago. She sold handguns and surveillance equipment; often joking she was the provider to one agent double-oh-seven. Much to Francis' surprise they shared tastes in music- something he was most often picked on about for being so old fashioned. She had surprised him one night when, at Hustler HQ, he was going over his stock, quietly singing "Luck be a Lady" mostly to himself. She chimed in on the next verse and he faltered, but they sang duet until the song finished, and were gifted with the smattered applause of the leftover hustlers.

It seemed to him she wanted to share more than a musical number.

"Ah, if it isn't the hustler himself." She greeted, her words exhaling and drifting like smoke from her lips.  
"Mm. You waiting for a ride?"  
"No, no. Simply enjoying the night." Morgana offered him a smile and a place to sit "Join me?"  
"For a minute. Thanks."

He sat beside her, his hands resting on his knees. It felt good to be off his feet and to let himself rest for a minute after all he'd gone through this week. He could feel her scoot close and the sent of her perfume and thin cigarette slide over his cheek. Moments later, a satin glove followed its path. Francs coughed gently and lifted his eyes, looking Morgana in the eye. She smiled at him.

"You seem awful down, darling. Might I be of service?"  
"I don't think you can help me, Morgana."  
"Nonsense – there is little a snub-nose revolver can't solve… unless you're more a… colt or magnum type."  
"I'm not any of them, I don't think."  
"Oh? You don't seem like the type to fire blanks." She smirked at the laugh she managed to draw from the other hustler. "Sure I can't do anything for you, honey?"  
"No, not really."  
"Oh, a shame. I hate to see you so down…" she drew the cigarette from her lips and put it out behind her, scooting right up next to him, sliding her hand over his arm "I'd love to be the one to put the smile back on your face."

Francis was never one to miss an opportunity or an obviously dropped hint, let alone one from someone so beautiful and so much like him. He had figured she had a thing for him, and he was right judging by the coy little smile and the way she was affectionately petting him. He gifted her with that smile she so wanted to see, then leaned forward and gave her what she really wanted. She made a small, pretty little noise and drew his arms around his neck, pressing her chest to his, kissing him like it was the most elegant affair in the world.

But this felt wrong, somehow sensations bled together and it wasn't lipstick and ash and sweet breath he was tasting it was blood and soot and anger. The jaw he held wasn't soft and smooth it was defined and square and below it on the left side were three thin scars that drew and out of place thin moan from the mouth he thought he was kissing. He in inhaled, cigarette smoke filling his nose with tinges of perfume and satin and denim and grit. The cigarette was the only thread, that and darkness and desperation, that kept him on track. Very slowly, though, the connotation of it tipped and bowed toward the wrong side. Something was wrong with this, off somehow. He couldn't place it but he knew he shouldn't be doing this, no matter how soft she felt underneath his hand, no matter how nicely she seemed to fit in his lap or how beautifully she sang with him. It just wasn't right, not anymore.

"I'm sorry." He said, removing himself from her. "I can't. I- … Do you need a ride?"  
"Not at all." She sighed, slipping back onto the crate and lighting up another cigarette, the embers falling beneath her heels "I'll enjoy the cold moon on my own for a while…"

Francis thought of saying something – but he didn't. He shut his mouth and turned, fleeing into the white-hot lights. He almost felt bad, but the thought was banished from his mind, something else taking over. For whatever reason he broke into a run and practically dove into his car, panting and heaving. He looked around, bewildered, before he grit his teeth and jammed the key into the ignition. He started the car and let it idle, flashing between anger and confusion to calm and thoughtfulness. He was so mixed up, he couldn't understand how or why and what was going on but he knew he had to do _something_ to make this better or he was going to lose his mind.

The hustler shut his eyes and let his head rest against the seat. Then he pushed off of that and let it press to the steering wheel. He punched the radio on and lowered the volume to almost mute, catching his breath. Then, suddenly, he dug through his pockets and frantically emptied them, looking for his phone. He unearthed it and lifted his heavy head and sent a short message to a familiar number.

_We need to talk.  
_

_

* * *

_**See? Told you. Totally worth it. **

**Thanks for reading!**


	11. FWB

**Whoo another one! I'm not as happy with it as I should be but I'm pretty much dying. THANKS RESEARCH PAPERS.**

**But yeah. More M-goodness. Well, to be technically is _implied_ M goodness. **  
**Trust me you'll like it.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Butch wasn't sure why he was here, standing awkwardly in the mouth of an alley, waiting for the hustler to show. After a few weeks of general avoidance, the dealer had suddenly sent him a message to meet him outside after school. He never specified when or where exactly, but Butch lounge against the wall and smoked, waiting for HK to find him.

Unsurprisingly, it didn't take long.

They stood facing each other for a few moments, both unsure where to start. It had been a while and they both knew why that was the case. They hadn't spoken about it to anyone and suspected the other had kept his trap shut too. Butch had stopped limping and Francis' cuts and scrapes had healed enough to be ignored. They hadn't bothered to talk to each other about it, though they should by all accounts (if those relationship books could be believed). It was… well it wasn't a mistake, per say. Neither could attest to _not_ liking it. But it had come close to something taboo, something that neither wanted to be blamed for.

Could it really be considered rape?

Both were shady on the subject. Thanks to sex ed (not that god awful school one, personal learning) the thing to go on was saying 'no'. Neither had – with the exception of Butch biting Francis' fingers when he first pressed in and the borderline vampiric love bites Francis littered his neck with- and they both did enjoy it. Had the other, though? They both had their share of keeping quiet though hating a situation. Butch felt like he kind of did provoke Hustler and goad him into it. Hustler was concerned mostly because Butch had cried and was in obvious pain. Both felt fault, but neither could really shoulder the blame the other, either. The whole situation was pretty damn confusing.

Standing here now, the hustler shoved his hands into his pockets and sighed. Butch looked calm enough (he hadn't bolted yet, but he was smoking pretty heavily). He had wanted to be one on one to figure this mess out. He had tried to by himself but so far it proved impossible. As awkward as it was, he needed to talk to the other end of the equation for this. No better starting point than the truth, he supposed.

"I wanted to talk to you."  
"Bout what?" Butch replied casually, taking a deep drag.  
"Us."  
"Us?"  
"Yes. This. What this is."  
"What we are?" Butch shrugged and "Well, I'm me, and I'm pretty sure you're you. Of course if you want specifics-"  
"Butch I'm being serious. Cut the crap and listen."

So Butch shut up, waiting for Hustler to talk. Problem was that was the extent of his speech. To be honest he had no idea what 'us' or 'this' entailed. It could be anything, really. They've run the gamut from friends to enemies to lovers (rough lovers, but it still counted). The variants and the implications of said variants had been rolling around in his head for days, none of them taking root for long. When he did think he stumbled upon a solution, it blew up in his face- or rather, he thought of all the possible things that could go wrong, so the solution became a much worse problem than the original trouble and was forgotten. He needed another living, thinking, breathing, coherent human to bounce ideas off of. Ergo, Butch.

"So… what are we?" Butch tried, seeing the hustler go silent.  
"FWB?"  
"Pardon?"  
"Friends With Benefits, Butch." He elaborated, rolling with the subconscious suggestion "Friends in the natural sense of the word, but with a little something… extra."  
"Extra?"  
"You know." Francis stepped forward and looped his arm around the smoking boy, guiding him deeper into the alley "You don't know. Let me spell it out for you then. We'll… be there for each other. A shoulder to cry on, a person to vent to, a handy place to crash, convenient lab partner, all that good stuff. But that can only cover so much. Look, I know you have… needs. I do too. Rather than go through all that running around and schmoosing and flirting, why not find a little relief in each other, hm?"  
"Hm." Butch was grinning around his cigarette, nodding a bit. "So you'll scratch my back if I scratch yours. That kinda deal?"  
"You got it. I ain't gonna interfere with any future girlfriends or whatever you have lined up. This ain't something official or permanent. I'm not yours, you're not mine, no attachment. That could be saved for, yah know, when we're in college or somethin'. But in the mean time-"  
"No, yeah, see where you're goin' with this, Franny" Butch stubbed his cig out on the wall and glanced at him, still grinning. "I'm in."  
"Great." Hustler chirped, smiling right back and offering his hand, which Butch took with just as much trepidation as he did enthusiasm. "It's a deal, then."

Hustler's smile waned, however, when Butch didn't let go.

"You know you can leggo now, right?" He tried.  
"Yeah." Butch drawled, his smirk renewing itself "But I'ma little fuzzy on the whole 'benefits package.' Lets… take it for a test run."  
"Now?"  
"You're not busy, are yah?"

Hustler laughed, tugging the hand and body forward until it was uncomfortably close for two friends. Butch grinned, gripping the collar of his coat, crumpling it in his fist. They were close enough to feel each other's breath (which was coming a little faster than before). Anyone walking by could mistake the closeness for a staring contest or a soon-to-be brawl. Rather than throwing a punch, however, Hustler merely chuckled and asked "Your place or mine?"

O/O

"You've got one helluva house, Franny."  
"Stop calling me that." The door shut somewhere behind him and he grabbed Butch and yanked him back "And don't go poking around without me."  
"Then take me to bed and kick me out, why don't cha?"  
"Gladly."

Butch was spun around and kissed, which was nice but would have been nicer with some sort of warning or something. He figured (hoped) Fran wouldn't be reckless and try this with his parents lurking around somewhere – but then again, this house was damn huge. It might take a while to get found. The hustler nipped his lip and Butch shrugged, sliding his hands up the heavy coat and just getting into it when he pulled away.

"Comin' or what?" He breathed, pulling away and towards the stairs  
"I sure as hell hope so."  
"Slut."  
"Hooker."  
"High priced _call girl_, thank you very much."

Butch chuckled, itching for a cigarette. Sure, they were cracking jokes and making fun of each other, but he was scared to death. What if this turned out just as bad as before? What if he bled again? Was it going to hurt? Fuck, what was he supposed to do if they finished late? How the hell was he gonna explain this to his parents?

He bumped into the hustler. He lifted his hand to take a drag off a cigarette that wasn't there, derailing it to an awkward head scratch. Hustler raised a brow but didn't say anything, ushering him into a needlessly large bedroom. Butch whistled and immediately prowled around under Francis' watchful eye.

"Anythin' you're lookin for in particular?"  
"Something to blackmail you with."

The hustler seemed pleased enough with his response and stayed quiet. Butch was glad for the extra moments of peace while he snooped. He wasn't really looking for anything so much as buying time. He figured the more time he had in the room they were about to do it in the more of a level head he would get and he could either get on with it or just fucking leave. No harm, no foul. He didn't wanna screw up again or go through another awkward period or explain this to anyone ever and-

Arms slid around his waist, carefully avoiding his stomach scars and drawing him backwards into a very large slab of a body. It was enough to make Butch gulp and his head reel, but rather than something terrible happening all he felt was a soft pressure on the side of his neck. Nothing more, he wasn't even sure if it was a kiss or nuzzle or whatever. He twitched a bit and tried to relax. The grip was lose enough he could get out of it with a kick in the balls, but he was fine here for now.

Hustler guided him to the bed, playfully pushing him on it. Butch almost complained, but then he felt the mattress. Oh what a mattress it was. He fell back and made some sort of noise, scooting up to the pillows and headboard and squirming around. It was so, so much better than his couch back home. He didn't even mind the heavy weight hovering over him, lowering onto him like a heated blanket. A blanket with a pulse and a pair of wandering hands and lips – not that he was complaining too much.

"Somethin bothering you? You seem kinda stiff – no pun intended."  
"Nervous."  
"This was your idea."  
"I know."  
"Do you want me to stop?"  
"…I dunno. Keep doin this though. Feels nice."

So Hustler did, slightly less so now but he kept up. Butch seemed to be relaxing, but as a precaution he kept everything above the waist and was exceptionally careful of where ad what he laid his mouth on. It might have been the cold, calculating bastard or the sensual seducer in him but he couldn't help but map out every point that made Butch gasp, that made him moan, that made him twitch. He promptly then abused the good places, hoping that Butch would start responding past a few squirms and sloppy kisses. He didn't want to force Butch, not after what happened last time, but he wasn't going to sit idly by until Butch thought now was a good time to have sex.

"Still feeling good?" He half checked, half teased.  
"Mhmm. Move your hand up a bit, wouldja?"  
"Too low?"  
"No. Your hands are cold and it feels nicest there."  
"Warm me up a bit, then."

Butch chuckled and raised himself off the bed, allowing Hustler's hands to move where he desired and brought the slightly warmer body closer. It squirmed happily against him and started to respond, using his hands for a change. It progressed slowly but surely, moving from careful, almost awkward explorations to something more experienced. They'd occasionally correct each other, but it wasn't more painful than a pinch or a nip. Butch seemed to be enjoying the attention, if not just the making out. Francis was certainly enjoying it.

Somewhere along the line, Francis shifted over him, pulling to the side a bit. He wanted to try something, and he figured it would be the best to try while Butch was distracted by a particularly deep kiss. Plus, he had never been with a guy before, so he was flying a little blind. At least he could use Butch as a guinea pig. Carefully and above the clothes – he'd been with enough girls to know you do not put skin on skin until they were damn well good and ready- he slid his hand down from Butch's neck to his hip (wary of the scars on his stomach), and gently over his crotch.

Butch twitched a little and broke the kiss, gasping. He paused, breathing heavy, and to the hustler's delight dove right back into it, drawing him closer. If that wasn't an indication of want (that and the grinding against his resting palm), then he was at a loss for what this guy wanted. He shrugged internally and kissed back, pressing down with a bit more force. Butch bucked, which made Francis smile into the kiss, which made Butch draw him closer. It was a pretty convenient and enjoyable cycle for both parts, though the both of them were both trying to enjoy and trying to forget what happened last time. They were succeeding for the time being, focusing on the touch and taste rather than silly things like thought and rationality.

Perhaps that's why they didn't quite notice when they started dry humping each other.

They both gathered coherence at seemingly the same moment, half ignoring it and half embarrassed about the situation. It didn't stop them, but they did slow down, just a bit. It was an awkward situation to be in. Did they just continue this? Should they start stripping? Should they have sex? Dry humping felt really nice. They could continue that. But what would they change into? Butch couldn't fit in Francis' pants. But sex was good too. Sex felt good, even if it hurt a little. It would be a nice change to not be bleeding and limping and guilty and bruised and bitten afterwards. So they were stuck at an impasse, but a nice impasse, to be sure.

"Do you want to do this?" Hustler finally asked, half speaking against his mouth  
"I… I dunno."  
"I won't force you. I just kinda wanna get off. Soon."  
"Me too." Butch paused for a moment and shrugged "What the hell. Lets do it."

The hustler seemed relieved, but he was careful. Every few minutes he was asking if Butch was sure, if anything hurt or if he wanted to back out. Butch appreciated the thought and knew why he was so damn cautious but it was a bit much. He told the hustler to hurry the hell up already. The fact he was horny as hell probably impaired his decision, and he gave it some serious rethinking when he saw the condom and lube get pulled out. Hustler asked again and Butch snapped at him until he was naked and an equally naked hustler was hovering before him.

It flew by so fast.

One minute he was bracing himself for the first finger and the next he was finished and panting heavy. It was almost as if it hadn't happened at all, or that he dreamed it up or something. He couldn't remember like last time, but then again he could. He did remember everything, but it seemed so weird, so out of place with everything else that it was like recalling a dream. He grimaced, feeling Francis pull out rather than watching him. It was better with his eyes shut. He could gather his thoughts this way.

I hadn't hurt. He wasn't aching like before. There was a small one, but it didn't feel like he'd been ripped in two. He was breathing heavy and he felt kind of sticky. That was… well, that had happened before. Puberty and all that. But Butch couldn't ever remember having a dream so vivid, so lifelike that he could reach up and touch the sticky skin and feel the heavy breath coming from someone else. It seemed it hadn't been a dream at all. Relief and some sudden shame washed over him, taking place of the after-sex high. It felt good. Really good. There wasn't a whole lot of second-guessing for fucking, not even with a guy. But why did he have to be the fucking bottom?

Francis sighed, catching his breath. He had always been one to rebound pretty quickly. Back alleys aren't exactly places you want to sit around and savor the afterglow – he trained himself out of it, somehow. He felt Butch sigh and weakly punch him in the chest to get him off. HK rolled, laying his head in his arm and shutting his eyes for a few moments. Sex with a guy. Butch. Sex with Butch. He was officially bi now – that first one didn't count because it didn't. Interesting. Didn't feel any different. The sex was actually pretty good. He got off, anyway.

He was at a loss of what to do now, however. Normally the girls got up and left of their own accord, needing to go somewhere. Then he'd lie back a bit, shower, and take it easy for the night. Butch seemed content enough to lie there, looking up at the ceiling, hogging his bed. He debated kicking him out anyway, getting his bed back and taking a night off. The hustler sighed, rolling over for a moment to clean himself up, discreetly tossing the condom he managed to remember into the trash under a few tissues. The sheets were going to be a bitch to clean, but he could wait until tomorrow. Butch was the pressing matter right now, and he was still at a loss. After a few moments of silence, he figured Butch could wait too. At least until morning.

"Regrets?" He murmured to Butch, pressing his head against the pillow.  
"….N-no. Not… no. I don't regret." Butch found it in him to smirk a little. "You gonna kick me out now?"  
"…No."  
"No?"  
"No. You can stick around. You don't have to sleep here though if it's too weird."  
"We just fucked. It doesn't get much weirder. Now shove over and gimme some covers."  
"You have plenty."  
"Give me some fucking covers or I'll hit you where it hurts."  
"My my, aren't we violent after sex - was I that bad?  
"Shut up."

Butch rolled over, facing the other wall. He took most of the blankets with him, so Francis followed, slipping most of himself over the smaller body. It grumbled and tried to bite him. Hustler just pulled him closer. Eventually they were situated so they were both covered, so that Francis was holding Butch and Butch was pressed into his chest. Spooning. It was a strange feeling- being surrounded and near such a beating heart. Butch couldn't remember any time past childhood where he used to sneak into his parents bed that he felt this warm closeness (which was freaking him out a little because that was inadvertently connect his parents with gay sex). Francis wasn't sure he ever got this close to anyone – at least not gently like this. All the strangeness aside, it wasn't too bad. Hell, at least they were both covered and kinda comfortable.

They could get used to this.

* * *

**Well that was fast. Nice job boys! **

**Thanks for reading! **


	12. Exposition

**Another chapter! Admittedly there's not much in this one. I just wanted to give some background info on my version of HK. It will be more important in later chapters, but right now it's kind of filler (hey thanks Finals!). There will be updates coming somewhat quicker now that the semester is over, but I can't promise they'll be regular.  
**  
**So yeah. Basically filler chapter outlining HK's background. Because why not (and the later ones will be totally unfounded unless I do this now).**

**Enjoy!**  


* * *

Butch woke up alone, which in and of itself wasn't unusual, but the circumstances preceding it were anything but normal as far as sleeping with your best friend was concerned, and he half expected a warm body beside him.

He shifted in the bed, torn between stewing in his own warmth and getting up to find Francis. A somewhat dull, pulsing ache in his lower half decided he'd better stay put for a little while. He grimaced but it didn't hurt as badly as he gave credit. Butch forced himself to relax, despite being abandoned in a needlessly large house by some shady guy who he just willingly bent over for after starting to befriend him again. For a minute he was ashamed of himself. The feeling burned through him, settling in his face, turning it red. Soon enough it passed, replaced by the fact that he really, really liked it, and if he liked it there was no reason for him to bother fighting it. He just wished it didn't have a lingering painful after effect. At least the bed was comfortable.

Sinking into the sheets, Butch turned his head and looked around the room, taking in the sparsely decorated walls and the few items of furniture. A dresser towered over and stared at him from the opposite wall, old and dignified. A smaller version of it sat to its left. Two night tables were on either side of the bed he was occupying, and belatedly Butch realized everything matched, but not in a tacky, department store layout way. Even the carpet and walls and covers he was burrowed under complemented the few pieces. The only thing that was out of place was Butch, and he sunk in deeper, hoping the warmth of the bed would shield him a little while longer.

Butch realized a few minutes later that it wasn't him that stuck out, so much as a living body did. Aside from a few scattered papers on top of the lower dresser, his discarded clothes on the floor, and the clearly fucked up sheets wrapped around his legs, there was really no evidence of life. No pictures, no personal items, not even a mirror. It unnerved Butch a little. He felt alone, and feeling alone was not welcome, no matter how anti-social he was.

So with some degree of effort, he got up and dressed, ignoring the ache that made him limp, and went to search for signs of life.

O/O

About a half an hour after he ventured out of bed, Butch was hopelessly lost but not yet panicking. The house was massive (though Butch might be exaggerating the size a bit), and he thought he might have to hunker down or call Francis at some point, looking for rescue, but there was enough to hold his attention.

Everything was spotlessly clean. There wasn't a thing out of place, save for the boy wandering around aimlessly. Butch was almost afraid to touch anything. He pulled his sleeve over his hand, preventing fingerprints, whenever he opened a door or touched something on a table. The whole house was silent and still – the door hinges and footfalls didn't even make noise. Butch felt like his breathing was making too much noise, echoing over the empty walls and beating him over the head, but other than that it was really rather nice in here, if not a little on the extra big side.

So far he had counted a dozen rooms on what he supposed was the second of many floors. There was a bathroom, two guest rooms, a larger master bedroom, a closet, several doors he couldn't open, and Francis' room. After some debated (flipping a coin, rather) Butch decided to hook left down the end of the hallway and after a series of turns he came to a dead end.

"Of course…" Butch breathed, looking back and forth for a way out. He tried both doors, figured out they were locked, then tilted his head back to let out an exasperated sigh. He'd trapped himself in a corner and now he was all disoriented. All he needed to happen now was one of the locked doors to fly open and something try to eat his face. That would be the cherry on top of this whole shit sundae. Butch growled and rubbed his eyes with his palms, letting them come back into focus while he traced the walls, looking for something to signal their location.

His eyes fell on a picture. A huge picture, actually. One of a woman with long, brown hair and blue-grey eyes sitting on a settee, one leg extended and the other tucked under her, masked by a long white dress. Butch wasn't sure if it was a picture or a painting or one of those pictures that was transferred onto a canvas. Whoever it was or whatever it was, it kind of scared him, but it was too pretty not to look at it. She looked content, if not a bit lost herself, and oddly familiar. Butch wondered idly if perhaps it was a relative. A distant great-grandmother from a kingdom somewhere far away or someone slightly more modern, like a second aunt.

"You found mom."

Butch turned, ready to fight or bolt despite his weakened state and regrettable limp, and there was Francis, looking frighteningly average among everything else in a worn tee shirt and jeans. It took Butch a second to figure out why he looked funny, quickly deciding it was because of his lack of massive coat, which seemed a bit on the weird side considering he'd seen the guy naked already. Butch shook the thought out of his mind, hoping to recover gracefully from his blank stare. It didn't quite work but Francis half smiled all the same and rolled his shoulder.

"Got lost?"  
"No. Hell no. Was just admiring the… stuff… and rooms. Stretching my legs. You know."  
"I see."  
"I was lookin' for you, actually. I woke up and you were gone. Looked everywhere."  
"You didn't try the bathroom? It's like five feet away from the left side of the bed."  
"…But I was on the right side." he paused, blinking. "You have your own fucking bathroom?"  
"I have my own fucking everything. I live in a mansion and I'm the only child of two rich people– it comes with the territory."  
"Damn lucky son of a bitch."

Francis smirked, one corner of his mouth picking up as he shook his head and looked down at his feet. Butch turned his eyes back to the massive picture on the wall, framed in gold. It looked professional and expensive – quite fitting with the rest of the house, and Francis to some degree. Despite the similarity, he looked a little uncomfortable in front of it and he wouldn't look up or at Butch.

"You look like her." Butch murmured, eyeing his impassive face "A guy version, I mean."  
"Mm."  
"I meant that in the most masculine way-"  
"I know. I see it. It's what everyone says."

Butch knew better than to push it. He was kind of flattered that Francis told him what he did. HK seemed like the kind of guy ho didn't tell people much of anything, much lest the honest truth. Plus, he looked kind of set by that line of questioning. Butch cut his losses and sort of changed the subject, bent on milking the hustler's honest streak while he could.

"So where are your parents anyway?"  
"Out. Business."  
"What do they do? Hustle?"  
"No." Francis ran a hand through his hair and seemed to look anywhere but at Butch "Dad's got companies around the world, so he's all over the place. Mom is… a fashion designer or something. Works a lot in the major cities."  
"Shit. That explains the house…" Butch followed him, stuck to his heels and looking all over the place like an excited puppy "Doesn't sound like they're around a lot."  
"They aren't."

Francis let the silence settle over them as Butch took in the words. He was hoping to avoid this line of questioning if he could, but he didn't see the harm in telling Butch at least a bit. Besides, if he ever thought about blabbing the hustler had the little mater of scars to hang over his head in retaliation. Still, the talking had made him uneasy, and he ushered Butch out of the dead end and down the hall, guiding him aimlessly for a few moments before he decided on someplace to take him so they could sit and be useless for a while.

"When were they home last?" Butch asked suddenly, a few steps behind but well able to keep up.  
"Mm… something like a month ago."  
"A _month_?"  
"Mhmm."  
"You're been alone all this time?"

The hustler nodded, slowing to a stop in the hall in front of the door he had been looking for, watching Butch out of the corner of his eye. Butch stared, his eyes wide, his mouth gaped a little. He looked almost astounded, in awe of him and all his earthly possessions. Here it comes, Francis thought. The request for parties and stuff and things spiraling out of control. Wanting to use him for the same shit all teenagers would want – parties and drinking and illegal crap that he could easily get out of by had no real energy to put up with.

But Butch, in what was becoming a pattern, surprised him.

"That ain't right." He murmured, one hand suddenly landing square on the hustler's shoulder, squeezing it tight in comfort or bottled anger – Francis wasn't sure which "Who the fuck abandons their kid like that?"  
"Butch, relax." Though he was flattered by the storyteller's concern for him, it was rather misplaced "I can take care of myself. I like it better on my own."  
"Such bullshit-"  
"Don't get all pissy now. I don't have the patients for it."

Butch stopped, but followed after him, grumbling quietly to himself. Francis rolled his eyes and held the door open for the other male, ushering him into the parlor. Butch immediately stopped grumbling to inhale sharply and _stare_. Francis didn't see what was so special about it, but to his credit it was one of the most well kept (if not ornate) room in the house. Leather couches, paintings, wall decorations and flowers, various lamps and hand-blown glass fixtures, tasteful tapestry and drapes, a genuine Persian rug and mahogany floors, gold and silver and bronze accents – the works.

What Butch was staring at, though, was probably the glass double doors that opened to the balcony that overlooked the back garden.

Without saying anything, Francis leaned over and pushed Butch's chin up to close his gaping mouth. Then he padded over to one of the leather couches and sat. Butch didn't immediately follow him, and Francis tipped his head back onto one of the arms of the couch and shut his eyes. He suspected Butch's mouth had popped open again and he was still shocked, so he let him be for a few moments. But then the emptiness and quiet got the better of him, and he lifted his head to look at Butch who, though still in awe, was taking a few tentative steps inward.

"Like it?" Francis asked, only barely covering his chucke when Butch snapped to attention and put his hands behind his back.  
"This room is bigger than my whole house."  
"It's not. But it probably cost more." After a moment, Francis added, "This is basically where we shove guests for entertainment when it was too crappy outside. Otherwise they're out there" HK informed blandly, jerking his thumb over toward the garden "Mom worked at home for a while - but since then it hasn't been seen much use."  
"…Shit man."  
"Come here." and a more plaintive "Sit with me?"

Butch didn't respond right away. Once he tore his eyes away from a bizarre metal sculpture, though, Butch trotted right over to him and plopped on the couch, sighing audibly. Francis pulled him onto his lap, burring his face into Butch's neck. Butch squirmed a bit but didn't resist, and after a moment he tilted his head over to the side so Fran could mess with his scars. The hustler was even able to get him to reciprocate, particularly to tilt his head back and kiss his jaw line, before he started squirming more and wiggling out of his hold -not that Francis let him get very far. Butch was pressed to the couch below the hustler's larger body and, while it wasn't uncomfortable, the storyteller worried a bit over what this was probably leading to.

"My ass is still sore." Butch reminded blandly, shoving him off for a bit of breathing room.  
"Too rough last night?"  
"N-no. I'm good but I don't think I can take another round so soon."  
"Then make out with me."  
"Get your hand off my cock."  
"It's not complaining."  
"I told you I'm not having sex with you."  
"I didn't say we were having sex. But I'm not stopping."  
"You're a dick."  
"Least I don't suck it."  
"Fuck you."  
"You already said no."  
"Dammit-"

Francis grinned, kissing him to shut him up. It was totally the opposite of what Butch had alluded to but he wasn't complaining – not just yet. Francis sure had a way with that mouth of his, and Butch was distracted from his soreness for the time being. The hand on his crotch wasn't helping him stick to his guns, either. However, when Fran pressed down onto his dick, stroking it and forcing himself between Butch's legs that he whined and put on the breaks. He pushed the bigger body up surprisingly easy, breaking the kiss and panting, looking the hustler straight in the eye.

"I th-thought you said we weren't…"  
"We're not." He affirmed, kissing Butch's jaw. "We're not. I'm just cashing in on our deal."  
"I'm still sore."  
"Say the word and I'll stop."

Francis kept up the gentle assault. Butch thought it was kind of weird but it felt nice and was muddling his brain. He had to be firm on this – he wasn't some sex toy and he really was in some pain. Problem was he didn't want to say 'no', because he would have taken it if he thought he could. But he didn't want to –and couldn't- give in to something this goddamn simple. So with some degree of reluctance he pushed his hand into Fran's face and forced him off.

"Can I at least get breakfast first?"  
"I'll do you one better." Francis murmured, sliding off Butch smoothly "I'll loan you my shower. I'll get breakfast in the mean time."  
"You trying to tell me something with the shower?"  
"Just that you smell a bit… musky."  
"That's your goddamn fault-"  
"Which is why I'm loaning you the shower. Now get up so I can show you where it is. Don't look at me that way. I know your ass got lost."

Butch sneered at him, throwing a throw pillow and missing badly. Francis just laughed at him and went to retrieve it while Butch got to his feet. For a moment they stood in silence, looking at each other, Butch holding himself on unsteady legs and Francis gripping the useless pillow in both hands. This was nice, they decided, and they smiled at each other., unsure of why it felt so good to be there, but enjoying it anyway.  


* * *

**Thanks for reading!**


	13. Wisp

**Hi everyone! We interrupt plot and making sense to bring you this drabble! It's short and really has no point (plot wise) but I want to show off so here it is!**

**Enjoy!**  


* * *

Butch was most easy to spot in the early winter, when the temperatures would drop suddenly in the night to that point where breath would only begin to curl out in visible puffs – and that was only if the exhalation was forceful. In this, one would expect to spot bits and pieces of breath, but full blows clouds were out of the question. Burning ash and vapor made for more stable bits of exhaled carbon, and as such the source of the poisonous clouds was easy to locate if you were looking.

Francis was looking, and thus Butch was easy to spot.

It didn't take long to find him, as the hustler was also gifted with knowledge of where to find the smoking storyteller, which drastically cut down the number of alleyways to check. A cloud of smog drifted in his path, pointing him in the right direction, and after a moment of allowance for his eyes to adjust to the dark. There was a quiet, almost unheard breath, a deep inhale. Suddenly Butch appeared, the outline of him barely traceable in the deep shadow, the lines drawn from the tip of the burning cig, wrapping around his body and finally racing back up to the dim embers. Butch took another drag, undisturbed.

More often than not Francis would just stare. Just waiting. Butch would either finish off then and there or he would blow a plume of smoke in his face. Both would earn him a half-hearted glare and some sort of reprimand for ruining his lungs or fouling up the air. Butch would take it in stride – at most calling him a jerk or saying 'yes grandpa'. The times he did decide to say anything about it Butch was silent, offering no excuse aside from an occasional shrug or, if he were feeling particularly generous, he'd stub out the poison early, grinding it into the dirt with his boot to make a point. Francis appreciated the aggressive if not reluctant gesture.

This being said, it was hard to keep himself from watching the boy smoke. It just… looked good on him, if that could be said. A good look _for_ him was probably the better way to phrase it. It might have had something to do with the way the smoke fell over his lower lip when he didn't feel like exhaling the smog forcefully, or the pucker he made when he did force it from his lungs. It might have been the way he held the burning ash between his fingers, covering the entirety of his mouth and chin when he inhaled. Maybe it was the sated look on his face when he was between puffs.

The same sated look he treated the hustler to after a long kiss or a good fuck.

Without warning a shiver crept up the hustlers spine, making him tremor almost visibly. Butch made no move to move or talk or even acknowledge him. Francis wondered if, maybe, Butch let his guard down and was relaxing for a change. But then his dark brown eyes flickered between the burning embers at the end of his smoke and the half-lit clasps on his coat, and Francis knew he was caught. It was only then he lifted his eyes from the cigarette to the person holding it, watching the body unfurl along the wall, stretching out and opening up into the moonlight. It was almost horrifying how he seemed to suddenly come to life from shadow, smoke falling from his nose and mouth, eyes lit up with dull fire – but again came that chill up his spine, and he knew it wasn't merely from the cool air nor was it from fear.

There was just something about the disgusting habit that was undeniably sexy.

"Whatcha lookin' at?" Butch asked him, letting the smoke float out between the words.  
"You."  
"Mm. Wanna hit?"  
"No."  
"Then why're you starin' at me?"  
"I'm not entirely sure."

Butch smiled warily, pulling the smoke stick from his lips and exhaling after it. Francis watched the vapor curl and twist in the air before vanishing. He wondered for a moment what Butch would think, in his position. Would he or had he thought of all the poetic analogies, the similes and metaphors that went along with him smoking a cigarette in the dark? How the smoke would hang, calling attention to itself but keeping the source directly hidden, right up until the source caught his eye. The way the smoke curled and hung gently in the air, like a shadow, like him, before slipping away into the night. Like him it was repellant, but ultimately interesting to watch, to observe, if not somewhat dangerous to his heath and demeanor. Addictive and captivating all the same. It was just so undeniably _him_ that Francis suddenly found that the image of him _without_ a cigarette infinitely more troubling than him _with_ one – as if it was an extension of the body that held it.

But then again, Francis was never one for any of that literary mumble. That was more Butch's thing. The hustler wrinkled his nose as another plume was forced his direction. He really had been hanging out with the storyteller too much.

"Lookin' for a good time, big boy?" Butch cooed, drawing his attention back to reality  
"You're going to get abducted someday."  
"Will you save me?"  
"It'll cost you."  
"Bastard." He took one last drag and stubbed the cigarette out on the wall, facing the hustler

For a moment, Francis wanted, more than anything, to know why. He wasn't one for just accepting anything on sight alone. He needed details, specifics, and tangible evidence. Without that, whatever he was told was more than likely a lie, and he would refuse to believe it. In this case he wanted, yearned to know why Butch smoked who made him, how it felt to breathe in burning air and willingly poison himself. He wanted to know if it felt like dying, or if it felt like living better than he did breathing simple air. He thought of recanting his refusal earlier, and reaching out to take a hit of the next cigarette Butch would undoubtedly pull from his coat. Just to see how it felt, to understand, to feel what someone like Butch felt. But instead of that, he demanded something else.

"Kiss me."

Butch smiled in earnest this time and, exhaling the last bit of smoke, he obliged.  


* * *

**There are a couple of more random not-plot related drabbles coming up. Expect them in the next day or so. **

**Thanks for reading!**


	14. Mixed Messages

**Alright so this one is short, I know, but I'm busy attacking HK. Shush don't question my methods. I must ruin all shreds of happiness!**

**This also has very little to do with the plot. It's more character development - and I needed to post this to post the next one that I really wanted to show you. Or so says my BETA.**

**Basically more HK background. I have no idea why he's so perfect for dysfunction. It just happens I'm sorry HK I really do love you.**

**Enjoy.**

* * *

It had been a long, long day. Aside from having to cram for every test ever before the winter break, the snow that had been predicted for the evening had turned to a downpour, and the lucky pair of Hustler and Storyteller had been caught right in the middle of it. Butch thought the whole manner was hysterical, even as they stood dripping in the vestibule of HK's home. Francis, on the other hand, didn't think it was funny at all. He inventoried his coat stock (no damage, thankfully), and excused himself to go take a warm up shower. Before he went in, however, Francis made Butch change into an old pair of sweatpants that were too small for him and forced him to towel off before he did or sat on anything.

Presently, Butch was leaning up against a wall, itching for a cigarette but not daring to go out or light up inside. He figure that, if Fran could stop being such a little girl and finish his shower in under an hour, then he could stem his craving by doing impure things on his living room couch.

The phone rang while he was contemplating this, Butch was jostled out of his thoughts by a shrill ring. He gathered himself and cast a glance over to the wall. It was rude to answer other people's phone, wasn't it? Sure it was. He leaned against the opposite wall, his gaze falling to the answering machine on a rather needlessly ornate table. The ringing stopped and the machine picked up.

"Boy? Are you home?"

HK's dad, or so he thought. It was weird. Franny sounded a lot like him. Like a _lot_. It was kind of eerie how similar it was, only the voice on the answering machine sounded a lot more dead and tired than Franny. Even at his most exhausted, The Hustler always sounded alive. What bothered Butch most, though, was the fact that the toneless voice was calling for a 'boy' rather than asking for him by name. Sure, it should be obvious who he was looking for, but really? Who calls their son 'boy'? Butch pushed off the wall and stood, listening.

"Kid? Are you there? School can't be that long. Pick up." A pause "Kid? I know you're in the house somewhere…"

Butch found his hand clenching and unclenching, his jaw set and a frown on his face. Every time the voice said 'boy' or 'kid' or 'young man' his blood ran hotter. _He has a name, damn it say his name!_ The voice continued on, demanding in the most boring tone one could command in for the 'kid' to pick up and listen to him. Butch just got madder and madder. He wanted to grab the receiver and snarl into it, tell him he got the wrong number and to fuck off. Idiot. This was the same son of a bitch who left Franny alone for months at a time.

"Listen, young man…"  
"Say his name."  
"I know you're there, boy…"  
"His name!"  
"...I guess you're not there…"  
"His name! Just call him by his fucking name!"  
"Call your mother when you get in. She… I don't know. Just call her."

_Click._

"Son of a _BITCH_!"

Butch slammed his fist into the tabletop, rattling the machine as it beeped once and proceeded to blink its little red light. He didn't know why he was so mad. He didn't know why he was shaking. Fuck that. He knew exactly why. How could they just forget about him like that! Their own son! They just _left_ him here and acted like nothing was wrong! You're fucking parent you just don't do that. If that bastard was anywhere near him ever Butch could just-

"Butch?" Francis was behind him, "Hey… what's up?"

Butch turned, blinking owlishly at the hustler behind him. His hair was still wet and he had changed into a worn looking sweater and old jeans. He regarded Butch like he'd just grown another head, but wanted to comfort him about it 'cause, hey, if you think about it an extra head could be kind of cool. Butch shook his head and realized his position really did make him look kind of crazy; hunched over, his fist square and sore in what looked like a permanent date. He was still kind of shaking. Francis reached out and rubbed his back and the anger drained bit by bit until he was more limp than upset.

"Uh… your old man called." He muttered, groping for the larger hand, finally finding it. "Sorry. 'Bout the table."

Francis gave him a knowing look and sighed softly. Butch couldn't help but notice the warm breath hitting his neck and he shivered, then immediately hated himself for it. Should he be the strong one here? It was _Francis'_ father that was being the asshole, not his. Why was he being so calm? Surely he could, you know, start emoting now and that would be perfectly understandable. It wasn't like Butch blabbed; he was a storyteller, not a gossip – and for fucks' sake, if he truest Fran with his scars the guy could trust him with some dissatisfaction with his parents.

But among all this thinking Butch failed to notice Fran had started talking. Butch must have looked confused, because when Francis looked up and cleared his throat, figuring he had been mumbling. It took him a minute and he couldn't quite look at him, but the hustler managed the barest of explanation.

"Look, my dad is an asshole. There's no getting around it and there's no denying it. My parents aren't… parents. They're like… roommates." He ignored the horrified look Butch and rubbed his back a little more before he turned to the living room. "Don't freak out about it. It's not worth it."

Francis retreated, foolishly thinking he put an end to the conversation. Butch didn't get the memo, and followed him. He kept talking, kept saying his name to get him to turn around. When it didn't work, he just started voicing his entire argument and opposition to the Hustler's current family situation and how bland HK was about it.

"What the hell do you mean 'roommates'?" He asked, trying to get the hustler to stop. "How the fuck are you okay with this? He barely knows you exist!"  
"I know. I know, okay. You can stop bringing it up." His voice was even, but Butch still felt like he was yelled at, and flinched appropriately, even though he wasn't being looked at. "I… It's not worth it. They've given up on trying to be parents, and I've given up on trying to make them that way. Don't look at me like that. I'm not some chump."

He exhaled loudly and padded into the living room, sitting down on the couch and leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. He heard Butch pad after him, but he had gone quiet for the time being. The hustler turned, about to say something, but Butch was already on him, his arms around his neck and his face buried in his shoulder in a rare show of blatant affection.

"I'm sorry." Butch mumbled, and before Francis could make him stop, he leaned up and kissed his cheek. "I'll shut up now. Just… don't be upset all night, okay? I won't mention it if you don't"

Butch withdrew as quickly as he had attached and left the hustler to his devices, making some excuse about going for a smoke. He took his sweet time, leaving Francis to stew in his thoughts and give up on the quiet. By the time Butch got back from the back door, he was wet again and Fran was watching the news. He decided to give him a few more minutes, and poked around the house for a little while. He came across the machine, its little red light blinking happily, the little digital readout saying '**One New Message!**' Butch stared at it carefully, itching for a smoke.

And suddenly the annoying little machine was a pile of plastic rubble, smashed against the back wall.

Francis didn't seem to mind.

* * *

**I'm sorry Francis. Butch will take care of you.**

**Okay so the next one will be up soon. I also has nothing to do with the plot and is more of a holiday-specific post than anything, but hey why not. HOPE YOU LIKE MOAR SADNESS.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	15. Traditions

**HAPPY HOLIDAYS I BROUGHT YOU ALL MORE SAD :D YOU GUYS LIKE NON-PLOT, CHARACTER DEVELOPMENTAL SAD, RIGHT? RIGHT?**

**No? Oh. Well then uh... yeah. This is sad. HK sad. It's not all that relevant to the plot so much as I really wanted to pick HK apart some more. I promise this is the last one for a while.  
**  
**Also there's a lot of Christian/Christmas/Catholic focus here because that's what I'm familiar with. If that offends you for some reason, you'll just be missing some sad if you skip over.**

EDIT: Ohhey, NekoMXR beat me to the punch on this one. It's actually really adorable and a whole lot less sad, so give it a look. Just remove the spaces ( [this site] /s/ 6578480/1/All _I _Want _For _Christmas _Is _You )

**Enjoy (though there is sad. Last warning).**

* * *

Christmas wasn't the Hustler's favorite time of year. It wasn't his most dreaded or hated, but it certainly wasn't his favorite. Not like all the other kids, overjoyed for family and present and holiday cheer. Everyplace was decorated, people were hounding him for gift ideas and purchases, and absolutely everyone was chattering endlessly about their plans. Even Butch, the most antisocial person HK knew, was ecstatic.

"I'm goin' to Montana this year!" He exclaimed in the cafeteria, nearly bouncing in his seat "Everyone's gonna be there. I've got, like, a million people in my family so we all pitched in and basically rented out a while lodge. It's gonna be a fuckin' blast seeing everyone again."

Butch had, of course, asked what his plans were. Francis had, of course, lied. He told him there was going to be a small get together and assured Butch that, though his parents were absentee, he wasn't going to be alone. Oh no – he wouldn't dream of such a thing! Who would willingly let themselves be alone during the holidays?

Francis, that's who.

Truth was, Francis would be alone this year, like very other year, probably working until mid-Christmas day, and then take a day or so off to count and restock and prepare for the flood of trade ins. He couldn't have told Butch the truth. He would have gotten all upset or, worse, invited him along. He didn't need a pity invite or pity at all or to see that half enraged, half horrified sad look on his face. Besides, he was too busy to take a vacation. People begged and pleaded with him to sell things right up until Christmas Eve – and even a few in the wee hours of Christmas morning. Great for him – more profit. He already doubled his earnings from last year thanks to a few good steals. He was trying for the triple now. Then he'd have something to brag about when they all got back from break.

Still though, Butch being gone and all bothered him. He had kind of hoped to drop by a few days before or after, see how he was doing. But that seemed all shot to hell. No matter. It would be easier to put up with the charade of the holiday cheer if Butch wasn't there to question him every few minutes.

This being said, Francis still had his seasonal ticks and worries.

Desperate to make the house look at least a little livable, Francis took to hooking up some icicle lights to the front trim of the house some years ago. He got a couple of wooden reindeer cheap, fixed them up, put a new bows around their necks, and put them on the front lawn. He didn't have to worry about them being put in lewd positions because of his neighborhood. The few complements he received on his meager display he shrugged off as an attempt to be neighborly. He knew what they said behind his back. Hustling was just as much wheeling and dealing as it was information gathering, after all. But it made him feel a little better to think he curbed some suspicion.

He also made some pretense of going out to get groceries. A good deal of stuff to make it look like there was a feast going on. He knew how to cook (you get tired of Peanut Butter and Jelly after about a year and tend to experiment for more edible things), and he often did make a pretty big spread – but that didn't change the fact here was only one person to eat it. He always ended up grumbling about how much food he made, practically giving it away to whoever asked with naught more than a shrug. But he knew deep down it was that 'just in case' that kept him working from early morning until early evening in the kitchen, and then later wrapping everything up carefully into plates to stock his fridge.

After that debacle, or perhaps before he sat down to eat alone in the dining room, he broke into the liquor cabinet and stared hard at the wines and brandy and vodka, thinking maybe it wouldn't be so bad if he blacked out and slept through Christmas this year. He never did, though. Ultimately he'd shut the door and replace the lock, settle on a cup of tea or, if he felt particularly daring, a glass of sparkling cider. He watched the clock tick away until Christmas came and went so many times before it hardly bothered him now how slowly it went.

He never expected presents. The tree was up and lit, dutifully put together and maintained by the two or three cleaners who thought their remaining benefactor deserved at least some seasonal spirit. There hadn't been any presents under it since he was six. He'd stopped believing in Santa the next year, after he'd been good and had nothing to show for it.

Mostly, Francis just sat back in one place and counted his Christmas profits and waited for the day to end. It dragged, always dragged, but it ended eventually, and then he could breathe again. At the very least he could count the days to the Hustler New Years Party. He didn't drink as a general rule, but it was sure fun to brag about his profits and watch most everyone else get smashed out of their minds and stumble all over words and legs. He actually caught himself laughing at the memory – a Christmas miracle.

Right about now, Francis was in the living room, picking at a platter and ruining his appetite. It was too early to eat dinner food and too late to subside on coffee alone, so he'd retired here and left everything warming until he felt like eating. He'd collapsed on the couch and was wholeheartedly prepared to stay there until it was dark or until his stomach nagged him for something other than cheese and crackers. The remote was a few feet away and the television still off. He'd turn it on soon – the silence was getting to him.

His phone rang. Legitimately rang. And it continued to. He didn't want to answer it, because he already knew who he was hoping it was and it was going to be a wrong number or a recording. He stared at the phone and waited until it quieted. He hadn't bothered to replace the answering machine since Butch smashed it. Convinced that was over and done with; he drew his legs up on the couch and sprawled out, groping for the remote. He wasn't too fond of holiday movies or the Yule Log, so he would just have to make due with the movies on demand channel.

But then his cell phone started ringing. He eyed it a few moments and sat up, letting whatever program play while he wondered who it could be and what he would feel like if he answered. He could have just let it go, and he probably should have. But he didn't. The phone was in his hand and flipped open before he could rethink it.

"Hello?"  
"Franny?" He vaguely recognized Butch's voice, thankfully, among the din of whoever else was there with him "You there?"  
"Yeah-"  
"Good! Why didn't you pick up?"  
"I'm… busy."  
"Oh well uh, I'll make this quick then – Shut up Martha! No! No it's not my girlfriend DAVID LET GO OF MY LEG. Sorry I swear to God my family-"  
"It's alright. Really. And you don't have to rush I'm okay now. I… I'm glad you called, actually."  
"Hold on."

The line was muffled, but Francis still heard. Wherever he was (somewhere in Montana), there were a lot of people making a lot of noise. The ones nearby were teasing him or screaming or both. He was vaguely sure he heard kissy noises and wistful sighs, but Butch yelling something unintelligible soon drowned them out. And then it stopped. The muffled became inaudible, and Butch returned, panting into the receiver.

"Sorry about that – Jesus they're all over me the second I try to sneak away to a minute to myself."  
"Where are you hiding now?"  
"Outside. Cold as fuck, by the way. Snow's pretty though." He inhaled sharply and laughed on the exhale. "So what's up?"  
"Nothing really." He answered honestly, watching stop-motion Rudolph prance about with an elf friend "Just relaxing for a change."  
"Good. You needed a vacation to get that huge stick out of your ass."  
"Any special reason you called?"  
"Francis! I'm hurt! A friend can't call another friend on the eve of the birth of the Lord?"  
"I'm hanging up."  
"Geeze man, lighten up." Butch muttered. "Seriously? I wanted to wish you a merry Christmas. Or happy Yule. Or joyous Festivus. Whatever you celebrate."  
"Oh uh… M-Merry Christmas to you too, Butch. Thanks."

The conversation seemed to leap over the initial awkwardness, instead defaulting to mundane topics like the weather differences (fucking cold versus eh, not too bad) and assignments neither one of them was going to finish. Francis peppered Butch with questions about his family, who was there with him, and how much stuff he got. It worked, for the most part. Butch kept feeding him answers and the more he kept talking, breathless and excited, the more Francis felt less alone. It was kind of like Butch was here with him, or he was there, leaning against a tree, listening to him talk and watching him gesture wildly with a big ol' grin on his face. It was kind of nice to forget where he was for a while.

"Francis?" Butch asked suddenly, quietly and more personal than before, and Francis knew something was about to go wrong.  
"Mm?"  
"You aren't alone, are you?"  
"No. No I've got company." He lied perfectly "A few other Hustlers with… less than great home lives."  
"Oh. Well yeah I guess that's cool. I mean it'd really suck if you were alone." Butch swallowed audibly "I uh… you know. Would have stuck around town to keep you company if you were gonna be flying solo. Just wanted to make sure you were at least having a little bit of fun."

Francis swallowed and let it go quiet for a minute. He was touched. Really. He hadn't thought Butch would bother to do something like that for him. He had expected a halfhearted invite, maybe, but to give up on the rest of his family, the family he was moments before rambling about so happily, the family Francis could never relate to – that was something he couldn't understand. He didn't get how someone would be willing to be with him when they could be doing anything else. It came with the territory, he supposed, but it shouldn't have hit him this hard. Sure he missed Butch to some extent, and sure he wished that his holidays could be a little more normal and like everyone else's. But he knew they couldn't. They never could be, they never had been.

It shouldn't have hurt like this.

He hadn't been this close to crying on Christmas since he was seven, and that year he bawled his little eyes out. Like hell he was going to let it out now. He was too old to believe in this bullshit. But, like when he was seven, he wouldn't tell anyone the awful truth. Just like he made sure to never tell anyone that Santa was made up so they could have a good Christmas, he would make sure to tell Butch what he wanted to hear so he wouldn't have to worry and ruin his own vacation. So like always, he steeled himself up and rubbed his eye, wiping away the backed up tears before they could fall, and evened his voice with practiced ease before responding.

"Thanks Butch, but you have a good time, okay? Don't worry about me." He forced himself to smile and chuckle a little bit "If it makes you feel any better about missing the chance to see me, I'll save you some mistletoe. Sound like a deal?"  
"Only if you promise to use it inappropriately."  
"Done."  
"Sweet." Butch chuckled and shivered loudly "Alright. I'm freezing my nuts off and I'm gonna loose you inside. I'll be home before New Years. We can hang out then?"  
"Sure."  
"Great. Merry Christmas Francis."  
"Merry Christmas, Butch."

The line went dead after a moment's hesitation and Francis suspected Butch dashed inside, rubbing his arms and fighting off any suggestive comments, forgetting about everything and being absorbed back into the warmth and festivities. Francis, by contrast, shivered in the mostly empty room, watching the old cartoon, alone. A rather large part of him screamed and wailed and threatened to make him sob, reminding him how unfair it was that he was stuck with a whole lot of nothing and nobody cared. But he didn't dwell. It never did any good.

So he took a deep breath and then a few more, slowly moving back onto the couch until he was nearly trapped in his, spread out on his back, looking mostly at the TV. It probably wouldn't hit him until later how horrible everything was, and by then he would be knee deep in transactions with no time to think on it. Delayed reactions benefitted him in the end.

But this time it happened much more swiftly, slamming into his chest like a wayward maul ball. His breathing tightened and his throat closed up a little bit. His eyes stung and burned, and everything went blurry. Francis couldn't recall it being this bad, the remembrance and realization of how utterly alone he was, in _years_. But here it was, ready to rip out of him and break him up just in time for Santa. He lifted his hands and pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, forcing them into his skull until they hurt. He grit his teeth and refused to give into it, going so far as to arch off the couch. Try as he might, however, one shuddering breath escaped, and echoed around the quite room, mocking him.

"Fuck."

* * *

**Yeah so that was sad. I'll stop ripping HK apart now and get back to the slashfest and plot :C **

**The New Year chapter, if I get it done with all the crap going on around here, will make up for the sad (but it will be totally useless in terms of plot). If not, the regular chapter will be at the very least plot related. Compromises!**

**Thanks for reading! **


	16. SWAK

**Okay so I meant to show you guys this one non-plot related one first, but then the previous two chapters were written and well there you go.**  
**In a way this is kind of to make up for the angst and emoness of the previous non-plot chapters. Here, have some making out courtesy of Butch and Francis. Also to act as a bit of a buffer because the next plot chapter is taking longer than I thought it was going to. It shouldn't be too much longer, but enjoy this anyway :D**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

When either Butch or Francis wanted to cash in on their deal, so to speak, they had a few options. First and best was Francis' mansion – large, empty, and equipped with comfortable beds and couches. Next would be an alley or something shady like it, because that was where they felt most comfortable, but it came with some degree of risk that neither was much willing to take. Last-ditch effort would be a hotel – provided Francis could ever convince Butch to actually go to one. Butch's house was nice, but it was more or less out of the question. There were other people there, and that didn't work out well for their private, mutually exclusive relationship.

But this time around they had no choice.

Butch's parents wanted to spend time with their remaining son, and though they were thrilled he had a little friend to hang out with (finally! A nice young man to break the broody silence – and so polite!), as parents they felt entitled to monopolize their sons' time. Francis had protested even Butch's invitation to come over, but finally caved, lured in by the promise of home cooked food and the ability to do terribly naughty things to the teenager that lived in the basement. That, and Francis had been so damned /lonely/ lately not that he'd admit it), and Butch seemed to cure that particular sadness.

So here they were, in Butch's basement, on Butch's couchbed, with the TV playing loud enough to cover stray noises while they made out while Butch was perched happily on Francis' lap. They were wary of footsteps above them, but Butch had assured (while pushing Francis down on the couch so he could get at him) that his mother was fluttering about the house baking any number of things for anyone she felt like giving them too. They went on about their business undisturbed – at least until the hustler thought of something, and broke the kiss to breathe some.

"Amateur." Hustler sighed, tapping Butch's cheek after breaking a kiss. The other male blinked at him.  
"Oh, so you wrote the book, huh?" He shot back, refusing to let the hustler get away from him. "Why don't you just show me how it's done then, Casanova?"  
"Is that a challenge?"  
"Damn straight."

The hustler grinned. He liked challenges. This was a new one, though. He couldn't rightfully say someone had ever dared him to teach him or her how to kiss, much less expect him to teach. Butch was different. He was standing toe to toe with him (albeit on his knees- he was a few inches shorter when standing, but relatively the same height in this position), smirking and making it seem like he was being dared. No matter. Hustler never backed down from a challenge, bet, or dare- that would be against the code. He smirked right back.

"Fair enough. If you're willing to learn, I'm willing to teach."  
"Cool."  
"I do have a few rules. No bitching, first off. If you don't like it, man up and tell me to quit it. Two, keep your hands off my ass and I'll extend you the same courtesy. Three, don't let this get 'round – consider it a special offer. Now go wash your mouth out or have a mint or something."  
"Jeeze, yah want me to take you to dinner first too?"  
"Silly Butch, I can't expect that from you. You're poor."  
"Asshole!"

Hustler just chuckled, patting Butch's face. He generously offered a mint and forced it down his throat, making a noise of approval while Butch was left to choke. Butch glared at him, but crossed his arms and waited. Hustler stared back.

"Well?"  
"Well what?"  
"Show me how to kiss then."  
"You have to relax, first."  
"I'm relaxed."  
"No, you're not." He carefully grabbed each wrist and detangled the crossed arms "This does not indicate relaxed. You need to calm down. I'm not going to force anything on you – you asked for this, after all. Now loosen up."

Butch chuckled and unfurled, setting his hands on his hips. The hustler raised a brow, wondering if Butch realized how queer that made him look. Butch looked up at him and tilted his head, gesturing for him to hurry the fuck up.

"You gonna start or do I gotta kick you outta my house?"  
"I have a better idea. You show me what you think is the best way to kiss someone."  
"Fine."

Without wasting much time, Butch leaned right up and grabbed his shoulders, hauling him forward for a kiss. It was rushed, quick, clumsy, and anything but perfect. It wasn't terrible, but it wasn't great. Regardless, the hustler returned it, trying to ease him back. He cut it back once Butch tried unsuccessfully to nip his lip and deepen it.

"Okay, let's stop there."  
"What? That bad?"  
"Oh, no… but it wasn't good, either." Francis sighed and re-situated them so they sat face to face. "Now, lesson two-"  
"What was lesson one?"  
"Good hygiene. Namely, keeping your mouth from tasting like the inside of a chimney."  
"You weren't complaining before!"  
"Now I am. You want to know the next step or not?"  
"Teach away."  
"Lesson two: Take it slow. Allow me to demonstrate."

Butch nodded and Francis moved in. He took it slow, easing in, drawing it out more so than usual. Butch leaned back a little, only to be goaded forward again. Hustler stopped advancing until Butch relented and calmed. He moved in again, slowly, carefully until he was hovering near his lips. Butch shivered a little, anticipation bothering him more than the thought of being corrected. It was only when the hustler paused a mere breath from his lips did Butch start getting aggravated.

"See?" He asked, pulling back.  
"See what? You didn't even do it."  
"True, but you can't deny I got you to tremble with anticipation."  
"…So?"  
"Nevermind. Lesson three: Gentle. You rush in like you did before and you might knock out a tooth."  
"You're exaggerating."  
"Shush."

This time, Francis moved in all the way. He took his sweet time doing so, but lip contact was made, and Butch realized with some small measure of defeat that the hustler had been right. This was… better than his. As corny as it sounded, he felt that stupid little cliché shock that shot through him at the touch. It was just a light pressure on his mouth, not aligned or picture-perfect or anything, but it wasn't bad. It felt nice. He was fine with that. It was the lingering that bothered him. Francis' hands on his shoulders kept him from moving in closer, making it more forceful. This bothered Butch much, much more than it should have.

"There, see?"  
"Huh?"  
"Did I loose you for a second, Butch?" Hustler chuckled, taking in the blush Butch was desperately trying to hide. "Now, show me what you've learned."  
"Wasn't expecting a pop quiz…"

Butch sighed and rolled his shoulders, reaching up to settle his hands near the hustlers' neck. He mimicked, mostly mocked the slowness Fran had used before until he finally made contact. Again with the stupid little shock to him but he pushed past is and kept it even and light and nice and God, this was bothering him so much how could he do this and not want more immediately? Some part of him realized the hustler was smiling a little and kissing back just enough to keep him from thinking he wasn't totally fucking up. Be that as it may, he parted from the other male, taking note of the little sigh that Francis had half-hidden.

"Much better, don't you think?"  
"Eh. " Butch shrugged his shoulders and looked off to the side. "Not bad, I guess."  
"You want to stop?"  
"… Naw. Go on."  
"Lesson four and five, then. Four is a manner of timing. I pulled back when you seemed uncomfortable. It's easy to spot- on you anyway. But I digress. Five is the addition of hands." Francis wiggled his fingers for emphasis "Are you going to be weird about this?"  
"Not if you aren't"

But Butch couldn't help but flinch at the sudden hands on his face. Francis withdrew his hands and shot him a look, but the storyteller 'harrumphed' and put the hands right back where they were. Francis, as punishment, took an exceedingly long time in touching his cheeks an the corners of his mouth, dragging them down to his neck and finally letting them rest on his shoulders. Butch gulped and shivered in spite of himself, half heartedly listening to the next part of the lesson.

"Hands are important with longer kisses. If it's a peck, you don't have to bother. For longer ones, not using your hands is weird and frankly, kind of creepy. That being said, stick to places that aren't inherently sexual. In short-" And here the hustler generously groped the storytellers ass, trying with all his might to keep from cackling at the squeak "No groping. Not yet. "  
"Asshole! I thought you said you weren't going to put your hands on me!"  
"I was making a point."  
"What point? You're an asshole? 'Cause I got that."  
"Wow." Francis backed off, putting his hands up in defeat. "Sorry. My fault. I'll just go."  
"Wait, but we're not done, are we?"  
"No."  
"So where the hell are you going?"  
"No where." He said, shifting to the other side of the couch. "Just giving you some space."  
"You just… I wasn't expecting it. Get back here and finish what you started."

He hadn't meant to sound so desperate. He shook his head and let go of the sleeve he'd grabbed while the hustler attempted to retreat, flirting with the idea of just abandoning this entire plan and learning from old movies. He turned and coughed, planning on doing just that. That was until the heavy hand gently turned him back around.

"Remember lesson four?"  
"Shut up and teach me, _Francine_."

The hustler chuckled and pulled Butch in, sliding his hands up his arms, over his neck and into his hair. He paused for a moment, hovering above his lips to draw a short breath before lowering his mouth to his. It was light, almost not there. Butch shivered and Fran shifted his hands just a bit, applying a little more pressure. He felt Butch moan and couldn't stave back the smile. Did he dare teach him the next part without warning?

Of course.

Carefully, he let his hands fall down to Butch's neck. Stroking the skin there, he pulled back for the barest moment and shifted to draw Butch's upper lip between his own. Again he felt the shiver of a moan. Francis smirked, closing his mouth around his lip, only to pull away. He kept at it, switching from top to bottom, from open mouthed to closed, until Butch started to mimic.

"See?" Francis whispered, barely breathing against Butch's lips, smiling a little at the tremor he felt under his fingers. He kissed him again, a simple little one to counter the complex. Kissing really was an art form, to the hustler at least, and some cocky part of him thought Butch should be flattered to be receiving lessons from a master. Another, larger part of him was just glad to have someone to practice with.

Butch seemed to enjoy it quite a bit, if the muted little noises were any indication. He didn't bother to answer or ask him for the next lesson. He just dragged him into another kiss. He really liked this. He never thought he'd like being corrected so much –but hot damn Fran was good at this. Butch didn't even mind feeling Francis let him down until his back touched the cusions. He didn't care when he felt the other male slide beside him, almost on top of him. Again the hands slid up to hold his face and he felt the fingers stroke his cheeks. He kissed the hustler back the way he had been 'taught,' hoping he had the hang of it.

Lost in this moment, he barely minded the feel of the hustlers tongue swipe along his upper lip. He gasped a little, conceding to it without another second thought. He felt the slick appendage slide into his mouth, just a little. It touched the tip of his, slipping against it for a moment before retreating. The lips closed, pulled from his, and started the pattern over again. Butch mimicked to the best of his ability, his mind a bit hazy. It felt… it felt so good.

His brain started to turn for a moment, scattered thoughts despite his better interests. He wanted to think about how fucking good it felt to be teased and touched and kissed like this. It was hard to think of someone's tongue in your mouth as erotic, or even hygienic. Butch hadn't thought much into it before being instructed. He figured he'd been lost in it too much to think and trying to focus and copy made him think more than usual. The more he thought (though he was trying really hard not to do or feel or think anything more than the feel of it), the stranger it felt. It wasn't a terrible strange… just odd. He could feel Francis teasing, stroking his tongue and poking around his mouth and no matter how fucking weird it was to think that it felt so goddamn _good_ he nearly whined when he felt him pull away.

"You're distracted… something wrong?" The hustler purred, speaking against Butch's lips.  
"_Fuck_ no…"  
"Really? I think you might need a little more… practice."  
"Shut up and kiss me."

Butch didn't wait for him. He rushed it a little more than Francis had demonstrated, but at this point he really didn't care. He just wanted to feel more of those shocks and shivers. The hustler didn't seem to mind, and gladly kissed him back, allowing Butch to initiate. He even politely opened his mouth to let Butch in to explore when he shyly touched his tongue to the seam of his lips. He had been paying attention, the hustler noticed. The way he tenderly touched his tongue to his was textbook, and the long, gentle strokes were a pleasant change from the usual in-out tongue fucking.

They were quickly approaching much more advanced territory, Francis realized. Technically he was only supposed to teach Butch how to kiss… but this seemed like a natural progression. Especial now that the storyteller's hands were liberally exploring. The hustler moved slowly, mirroring his actions, mindful of the little outburst before. Butch wasn't complaining at all, though. In fact there were hands frantically clutching and twitching along his scalp, drawing him closer and closer. He was being pretty good about breaking for breath and going from one technique to the other… perhaps he could reward him.

Francis shifted his position, hovering over the other male, and let his hands drop down to Butch's waist. He pulled back to let the boy gasp; only to have his mouth reclaimed with more fervor than before. Francis worked and arm around Butch's back and held them flush together – lip to lip, chest to chest, stomach to stomach, even hip to hip. His broad hand supported his back while Butch's hand threaded through the hustler's short brown hair and gripped his shirt. Against his own will, Francis' arm flexed and pulled him up tighter than they had been. Butch bucked at the sudden increase in pressure, which made the hustler above him groan into his mouth and suck a bit harder on the already kiss-swollen lip than he originally planned.

Butch nipped him, rolling his hips and clinging to him desperately. He broke the kiss to lick his jaw and neck, murmuring mindless drivel. Francis kissed his face and eyes and tried to reach his neck but Butch wouldn't let him move away that much without forcing a kiss on him. Not that Hustler was complaining. In fact he was looking for ways to propose the idea of sex. He could pretend he was giving him a few pointers on foreplay… but really he was just looking for an excuse to fuck the flushed, panting face and make it scream his name mindlessly and beg for the chance to come.

Again the kiss was broken and, despite the frantic attempts otherwise, Francis wouldn't let him dive right back in. He wanted to find the words to ask him to move on even though they had deviated quite a bit from the lesson plan. If the pressure on his hip was any indication, Butch liked where this train of thought was going, even though his eyes were cloudy and he looked somewhere between confused and angry that the contact had stopped. He arched, licking his neck and chin and trying to kiss him again. The hustler pushed him down, breathing heavy, and the hand that had been supporting Butch slid under his shirt, barely stroking the scarred skin. Butch moaned, lifting his eyes and nodding, a small smirk on his face.

Butch let the hustler "show" him the next steps. His eyes were closed but he could feel the rough hands slide under his shirt and twitch against his skin. He thought he heard a few words, probably more directions. The storyteller had no patients for that, so he grabbed the hustler by his shirt collar and yanked him down for another one of those expert kisses. He was goaded to lead, but he was a quick study. He got the hustler to moan in his mouth and move those hands from his chest to his hip and the front of his pants… He smirked, nipping at his lower lip and arching up into the hand that was pressing against his crotch. He felt the hand move up a little, flicking open the button of his jeans, taking hold of his zipper, pulling it down tooth by tooth and-

"Butch, sweetie? Are you hungry? I saw Francis' car is still out front is he staying for dinner?"

Butch pulled down his shirt and coughed, smoothing back his hair. He heard himself say something along the lines of 'No ma, we're fine' despite her insistence that dinner for an extra would be no trouble at all. He squinted up into the light falling from the top of the stairs, halfheartedly redressing himself and trying to look like he hadn't just been half an inch from fucking. The banter continued on for a while, Butch assuring they were more than okay and would be upstairs if- when- they felt like eating. When Butch stood up to stand at the bottom of the stairs, the conversation shifted to why he looked so disheveled. He blamed it on goo old-fashioned horseplay- and in that case he was only lying when it came to how 'horseplay' was defined.

All the while, the hustler glared daggers at him from his new spot on the floor. Somewhere along the line he crawled back up on the couch and dusted himself off, stretching out. Butch's attention was divided between the waiting salesman and the doting mother. Finally, she retreated, promising to get some cookies for them. Butch stepped back into darkness and took a few deep breaths, trying to keep from panicking. No reason to panic. She didn't suspect a thing. She was making them _cookies_ for Christ sakes. They were in the clear. He turned his attention to the Hustler and uncrossed his unconsciously crossed arms.

"So…" Francis cooed suddenly, sitting back on the couch, looking quite relaxed despite the near discovery "Come here and show me what you learned."

Butch stared at him, which made the hustler arch a brow. He was probably trying to figure out which move to use next. No problem. He could wait.

He wasn't expecting for him to move so quickly. It seemed like out of nowhere, Butch was on his lap, his legs on either side of his. He was hunched over, bent close to his face, his hands on Fran's shoulders and holding him in his place. This… confused the hustler a little, but he didn't let it faze him. He simply smiled and looked up at the hovering male.

"You're in the wrong position." He chided gently "This is usually the girl's stance."  
"Ask me if I care." Butch breathed against his lips, kissing him once more.

Though Francis was a little unnerved by the fervor he was using, he supposed it was a good thing. He hoped had been paying attention and wasn't just spouting off a little extra energy. Butch was a fast learner… but it could have been because of that oral fixation thing he kept blaming his smoking habits on. It didn't matter, really. At least he wasn't completely in the dark and floundering around like some awkward teens. He actually got him to kiss the air after he parted – that was a feat for someone without experience. He smiled.

"Not bad…" He praised, "but there's one last rule. You leave 'em wanting… they're libel to take it by force" And, with a smirk on his behalf, he leaned up and took what was being denied.

* * *

**Yay! Happiness with a large helping of unneeded makeout chapter! Double yay!**

**Thanks for reading!**


	17. Smoke and Mirrors

**Oh look, a plot chapter! How new and exciting!**  
**There's no excuse for how long this took me to post *hangs head in shame* But! It's all nice and shiny new now (kinda- very revamped, anyway)!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Francis was beginning to suspect that finding Butch was about as possible as holding down a shadow.

He'd looked everywhere, in every alley, under every rock, in ever spare room and stairwell. Butch was nowhere to be found and no one had seen hide nor hair of him. The hustler knew he was on the premises, seeing as how he spotted him in class earlier, but there was no sign of him now, and it was beginning to piss him off. He knew he couldn't expect Butch to be in the same place at the same time – that wasn't his MO – but it sure as hell would have been helpful. Butch was all about being sneaky and secretive and mysterious, which meant he was hard to find, which meant Butch found whoever was looking for him first, which meant Butch got the rare opportunity to scare Francis into making a very un-businesslike noise, which made Butch nearly fall on the ground in hysterics.

Once Francis had gathered himself and got his heart rate down and kicked Butch in the shins to shut him up, he withdrew from his coat two tickets. Butch, who was still getting his breath back, sort of stared at them, then at Francis, waiting for an explanation. The hustler wasn't very good at those, at least not in these situations, so he was blunt about it.

"I've got two tickets to the new park opening up next weekend. Do you want to go with me?"  
"You're not going to hock them?"  
"Tried. Market's saturated."  
"Glad to know I'm second best."  
"Are we going or not?"

Butch went quiet again, looking at the tickets, the hand that held them, up coat swathed arm and to the waiting face. He wondered if HK knew the proposal he was making sounded as awkward to him as it did to Butch. The bland look on his face indicated otherwise. To Butch, it sounded a hell of a lot like a date and, sure, he liked the guy well enough, but not enough to date him.

On the other hand, Butch did want to go to the park. It had been ages since he actually went out anywhere not in town, and this was a great offer. Francis would, no doubt, give him some sort of weird discount in exchange for whatever, and even if he didn't it would be a pretty good chance to see HK relax and loosen up for once. At the very least he would get out of the house for a little while.

So casually, like it was no big deal (and it shouldn't have been because it wasn't a date or anything no matter what his gut was telling him), Butch lit up and nodded, reaching for his ticket. Francis snatched it back, stowing them in his coat.

"So yeah?"  
"Yeah. Sounds like a plan."  
"Great. I can drive both ways."  
"Lord your Beamer over me, why don't you?"  
"Bite me. You love my car."  
"It's pretty sweet, but you should have opted for the Caddy, Mr. Moneybags."  
"So I'll pick you up Saturday at noonish? Will you be awake by then?"  
"Yes. And fuck you. Thanks."  
"No problem."

With a needless flourish of his hustling coat, Francis turned on his heel and left the storyteller alone with his thoughts, however scrambled they might have been.

O/O

"Holy shit, that was a good one." Butch admitted, his walking more stumbling while the blood and organs settled back into their rightful place inside him. Rollercoaster's were not things to be fucked with. Francis, who's own walking was somewhat stunted and stumbly, agreed by chuckling and nodding slowly, looking as if he was trying to keep everything down and in where it ought to be. Butch grinned and stretched, glad to see the fearsome, stoic hustler all jumbled, if only for a moment.

"So what's next?" Butch asked, already scanning the buildings and tents, looking for the next thing to victimize himself on.  
"Tilt-o-Whirl, Big Swings, and Log Flume are all waiting until my stomach unknots itself. Games are out because I know your ass is broke and I'm not paying for it. That leaves... the Haunted House, Bumper Cars, Ferris Wheel-"  
"Hey, the Tunnel of Love is-"  
"I fucking refuse to be seen on that with you.'  
"Francis!" Butch faked a pained expression "I thought you cared!"  
"Shut the fuck up. I'm not going in there with you because I _know_ you're going to pull a stupid stunt. In fact, same goes for the Haunted House."  
"You're a dream killer. And a fun sucker."  
"I also paid and drove you here. Keep pushing it and you'll be hailing a cab home."  
"Asshole."

Butch laughed despite himself and lead them along, wandering the park aimlessly. He really was grateful to Francis for his generosity and probably would have hugged him if it wouldn't look so fucking gay. But he did want to repay his kindness somehow, if only by giving them some time to relax after the gut-wrenching ride.

Suddenly, the solution appeared right before his eyes. Butch smacked Francis' arm with a resounding thud, then tugged on the fabric and pointed. Francis blinked at him, wondering just what the hell was going on.

"I wanna go in the Fun House." Butch elaborated, pointing to the ramshackle building.  
"You can't be serious."  
"Why not? It's nice and quiet for your bitchy stomach, and we haven't gone on it yet." Butch had already decided, walking towards the old building. "It's just a mirror house, Franny. What, scared of seeing your pretty face all distorted?"

Butch laughed, letting it settle into a grin when he heard heavy footfalls behind him. He hadn't quite expected the slap upside his head, but he let it slide. Truth was Butch was scheming. The Funhouse was old and pretty shitty looking, but it would be quiet and empty, and that was what Butch needed. After all, how would he show his appreciation with people watching?

They made their way past the half awake ticket taker and walked right on in, the floorboards whining loudly in protest. They meandered through the halls, not touching the sides, fearing splinters or smudging the glass. It didn't take them long to get to the ending room despite the jokes they were making at each other's expense. In fact, by the time they got there Butch had almost forgotten his plan in favor of goofing off some more. But once Francis opened a door and their reflection stared back, Butch remembered clearly. A smile crept over his face and he shoved HK inside.

"When you're done checking yourself out, prom queen" He drawled "We'll work our way out."  
"Shut up."  
"I'm thinking we get a bite to eat and I run you the hell over in the Bumper Cars."  
"Fine. Now shut up and help me navigate."

Butch did no such thing. Rather he followed behind Francis, poking fun at him when he pumped into mirrors and cursed. It was just as well. Francis could do this just fine by himself, and Butch would probably be utterly useless and run into walls. It would have been nice if he hadn't been such a raging dick about it, but the hustler could manage. He was starting to get a bit hungry himself and the motivation of food, even the crappy amusement park kind, was enough motivation to get him going.

Butch, on the other hand, seemed to be hungry for something much, much different.

They stumbled across the center of the mirror maze entirely by accident, and were promptly surrounded by reflections of themselves on all sides. Butch grinned like mad. Francis sighed a little, clearly annoyed with having to paw around until they found the way out. Before he could do much of anything, however, he watched Butch's reflection advance on him, and turned abruptly to catch the real Butch in the act. He raised an eyebrow, allowing Butch to corner him, keeping an eye on the weird smile on Butch's face. It dawned on him suddenly, just as Butch's hands pressed against his chest and he back fell flush with the mirror.

"Up for a little fun, Hustler?" Butch cooed.

Francis returned his smirking grin, embracing Butch for the time being. Butch and his crazy ideas. They never ceased to amaze him. Said storyteller, chuckled softly and leaned up into him. Rather than answer him in the verbal sense, the hustler leaned down and kissed him, just like Butch wanted, and left him do as he pleased with his wandering hands.

He was just glad the mirrors were sturdy.

O/O

"Come _on_ you guys!" Vince shouted, stomping his foot "It's the Sinister Twister! The most awesomest roller coaster in the state!"  
"Yeah!" Spinelli agreed, "I mean even _Gus_ is going, and he hates this stuff"  
"Hey, I'm a lot bigger now." Gus muttered "And it doesn't bother me after basic training-"  
"Whatever jarhead" Spinelli dismissed "Point is they're being chicken and that ain't right."  
"It's opening weekend – you won't get another chance like this again!" Vince implored, "You guys don't wanna be the only ones not going, do you?"

But Gretchen and Mikey were not swayed. Though Gretchen was interested in the gravitational and centrifugal force reacting together in the form of an entertaining ride, her stomach could only handle so much experimentation. Mikey also had a weak stomach and had, moments before, devoured his lunch and everyone's leftovers. They both declined over and over, faced with protests from all sides until TJ finally stepped in

"Look guys, they don't wanna go, so we can't make 'em. Sure, they're missing out on a once in a lifetime opportunity, but that's their problem. Let's just go and we'll meet with them afterwards."

The three reluctantly accepted and left with TJ, leaving the thankful Gretchen and Mikey to their own devices. For a while they just wandered around, looking for something to do. Gretchen preferred to sit or look into some of the tents detailing the past blue-ribbon winners or the history of the park. Mikey wanted to watch the performers and maybe grab something more to eat – though Gretchen had to steer him from that because they were already dangerously short on funds. So they compromised with bits and pieces of each, making peasant conversation (though the topics differed and often had nothing to do with each other).

As they were rounding a bend nearby the Arcade and Tilt-O-Whirl, Mikey stopped suddenly, and Gretchen ran into him. She recovered without falling, fixed her glasses, and peeked around the large male to see what he was looking at.

"Look Gretchen! A Funhouse! Oh how delightfully charming – would accompany me? Please?"  
"Well…"  
"Please Gretchen – I know it isn't educational, but it would be so lovely to rekindle a boyhood wonder at simple reflection."

Gretchen smiled a bit, her mind already screaming warnings. Mikey was prone to regression more than anyone she had ever know – something exceedingly troubling in someone who was still very young. TJ had warned her to guide him away from the kiddie rides, fearful of another Bonky episode. But this one seemed harmless enough. And Mikey, with his pout and manner, were rather hard to resist.

"Well… alright. At the very least we can get out of the sun."

Mikey clapped his hands in delight and thanked her profusely, then dragged her to the ticket taker. He woke the man, offered him the appropriate tickets (that he took grudgingly), and dragged Gretchen inside. They had about as much fun as to be expected. Mikey flouted about, inspecting mirrors and reciting poetry about the reflected image. Gretchen attempted to enlighten him, tell him the true physics behind reflection and the bending or light, but Mikey mostly ignored her (he didn't mean to, of course, he was just infatuated with the distorted reflections). Gretchen had given up on educating the large male by the time they got to the mirror-lined hall.

"Worry not, Gretchen" Mikey said, holding his arms out. "I'll clear the way."  
"That is very nice of you Mikey, but it's unnecessary. By using the angle of the lights and the mirrors, and with Galileo's help, we should be out of here in no time."

Gretchen had pulled the old but often updated machine out of her pocket, rousing the helpful frog, but Mikey had already started forward, nudging his girth through the hall, getting a good way inward before Galileo had downloaded the blueprints and calculated their location via GPS. Gretchen took over from there, though Mikey protested, and they had an amicable back and forth over who could prove most helpful, until there came a sudden, echoing groan. Mikey froze, and Gretchen ran into him, distracted by the sound. She adjusted her glasses and stepped back.

"Be it a friendly spirit haunting these grounds?" Mikey stage whispered, leaning down to Gretchen, who was tapping at Galileo.  
"I don't believe so. It sounded more like a structural fault. Ideas Galileo?"  
"I'm afraid Mikey was more correct, Gretchen." The little frog elaborated, flittering about on the screen. "It was a human moan – though one that was decidedly alive. I'm afraid I'm not sure of the _reason_ for said noise but if I suggest we find the source, lest they be injured."  
"Good idea. Let us advance!"  
"Cautiously, Mikey. There is no need to stamp through and possibly scare and injured person."

So they moved forward steadily, looking around for anything or anyone broken or in need of help. The reflections made it hard to see, and the groans, though small, were more frequent. They supposed that meant that they were close to the source, and hey looked harder. The mirrors kept their reflections looking back at them, hiding the potential problem.

Until it didn't.

They rounded the bend, and suddenly the image reflected back at them wasn't their own. It was of two different people who seemed very, very caught up in each other. Though somewhat glad the building wasn't haunted and neither looked the least bit injured, both Gretchen and Mikey (and even Galileo, who had covered its eyes with its little flippers) were struck dumb for a short while, just watching. The two continued on, oblivious, attached at the mouth, arms wrapped around each other and hands roaming. Another gasp and low moan slipped from them and through the halls, bouncing off the mirrors. They parted from each other, if only slightly, their flushed and smiling (or smirking) faces reflected in the smooth glass.

Instantly it clicked and both Gretchen and Mikey gasped, clapping their hands over their mouths a second afterward to block the noise. They exchanged glances, not horrified but really rather shocked that these two (these two especially!) were so wrapped up in each other. Gretchen reeled, trying to calculate the likelihood of this pairing, and eventually giving up and blaming it on chance. She'd recalculate again later, to be sure, but she'd need the aid of Galileo, and the computer seemed unwilling to come out of standby. Mikey, on the other hand, seemed much more at ease with the situation. Always infatuated with the romantic, the large male sighed a wistful sigh and smiled, watching the two engage in another lovers kiss, not-so-secretly pining for the same fate to befall him (though preferably one of a female nature – honestly, what did sensitivity and passion for the arts have to do with ones preferred sexuality?).

However, before Gretchen could stop blinking dumbly at the reflection and before Mikey could think of a word to rhyme with 'amour', the two tangled teens detached and wandered off, somewhat red-faced and noticeably happier than usual, but otherwise acting like nothing had happened. They heard the echo of a laugh and then a door shut at the end of the hall, and seemingly snapped out of their revere all at once. Again they exchanged a glance and nodded, looking determined.

They knew exactly what to do.

O/O

"You saw _who_ doing _what_ in the _where_? " TJ stressed, having to be told again, even after hearing it six or seven times. The first three had to have been a joke – but at time six he was worried that it might actually be true. And if it was, what the _hell_?  
"Like I said, we saw Butch and the Hustler sharing a loving moment in the hall of mirrors!"

TJ blinked and leaned back on the couch in his basement, nursing a soda. After spending the day at the park, the gang had decided to plan a tactical retreat to TJ's basement and spend the rest of the night hanging out. Mikey had dropped the bombshell about five seconds after they had all settled in (despite Gretchen trying to be more tactical about it). No one believed them at first, but Mikey was being so adamant and Gretchen – the honest, bright, almost-never-wrong genius – was backing him up.

"I'm not buying it." Vince said, shaking his head "It's too weird."  
"I must admit, I'm shocked at our findings-" Gretchen started  
"Shocked nothin." Spinelli spat, chugging her drink and crushing the can "I mean_ seriously_?" Do they even know each other?"  
"Obviously if they didn't before, they do now" Gus added, withering a little bit under Spinelli's glare "I mean, I _guess_ they do. I've seen them hanging around after school."  
"Whatever it is, it's still kind of out there." TJ admitted "Are you totally sure, Gretch?"  
"Affirmative."  
"Why are you all making such a fuss?" Mikey questioned, putting his hands on his hips and staring them down "Why _shouldn't_ they have free reign over their lives? Who are _we_ to judge if they find solace and love in one another?"  
"Keep it down, Mikeo. We're not against it or nothin'." TJ placated, holding his hands up in defense "It's just... we weren't _expecting_ it. It's like a… surprise."  
"Like tuna surprise." Vince mumbled, wincing when Spinelli ribbed him for it.

TJ stood amongst the chattering teens and raised his hands to stop their arguments. Once quieted down he took a breath, and relayed his plan of action.

"Listen, I say we make a pact, here and now, to keep this quiet." TJ shushed protest from all sides and explained further "I have nothing against it. Heck, I'm happy for 'em – but there's a reason that they were doing that in private and not out on the benches. At least there _probably_ is – but I don't wanna end up wrecking something they got that makes them happy by blabbing it all over the place. It'd be too much like snitching. We'll just keep this between us and let them go on about their business."

The group nodded in agreement and turned their collective attention to the remote, which Spinelli and Gus promptly argued over. TJ collapsed into his seat, crisis averted, and watched with some amusement. He glanced over at Mikey, and was displeased to find him frowning and looking sort of sour. So he sat up and scooted over to Mikey's side, patting him on the shoulder.

"What's the problem, Mikeo?"  
"I just don't see _why_ we need to keep this so hidden and secret. There is nothing more pure and perfect than love – why hide it?"  
"I'm not… Look, Mikey, I'm on your side here. I think it's great, but my thinking is what if they don't?" He shook his head at the larger boy's skeptical look "We're just keeping it quiet like that nurse and that preacher guy did for those two kids in that one book – the one where everything was written all poemy like? You know what I'm talking about."  
"Are you referring to Shakespeare's immortal work of Romeo and Juliet?" Mikey asked, perking up considerably and clasping his hands together  
"Uh… sure, okay." TJ said, shrugging his shoulders.  
"Wonderful!" He said "It's like watching work come to life before my very eyes! Oh, but I do hope they have a better ending."  
"We all do, Mikey. We all do."

O/O

The following Monday proved to be quite dull. Everyone chattered away about the park and what rides were best and that one kid from Fifth Street that threw up in the Pirate Ship. Francis had enjoyed himself, but his break was over, and he had a job to do. So he made polite chit chat with the customers, but otherwise put the experienced behind him.

Until Butch ambushed him.

It wasn't even an exaggeration on Francis' part. Butch literally reached out from his shadows and grabbed a hold of him, yanking him into the alleyway. He stumbled but kept his footing, grunting in protest but otherwise letting it happen. Before he could turn and tell Butch not to do that, the storyteller had wrapped his arms around his neck and kissed him hard.

"Afternoon, Hustler." Butch greeted, sliding back to the wall and lighting up a cigarette "How's tricks?"  
"Not half bad." He touched his mouth and shrugged, smirking a little "What was that for?"  
"For treating me yesterday. I didn't think 'hey thanks' was enough."  
"Molesting me is?"  
"I thought it helped."

The hustler shook his head and grinned, stepping toward Butch, pinning him against the wall. The storyteller grinned around his cigarette, raising a brow. He pressed his hand to Francis' chest and felt him breathe and chuckle against his fingertips. He didn't think fooling around right now was a great idea, but they were alone enough and he _had_ started it, so he was going to take his punishment as he saw fit.

Until he heard something crash.

In an instant Butch and Francis were on the opposite sides of the alley, looking towards the source of the noise but as separate entities. They stared at the huge teen, who was standing pigeon-toed and hands clasped in the mouth of the spot, casting an even greater shadow on it, exchanging glances at the bright smile Mikey flashed them.

"Salutations, Hustler and Butch!"  
"Hey there Mikey. Whatcha here for? Want a story?"  
"Or a Winger Dinger?"  
"Oh no no no – I come to inform you that your secret is safe with me."  
"Secret?" the two of them chorused "What secret?"

Once more, they exchanged glances. Francis shrugged minutely, hoping that Butch knew what he was going on about. Butch only took a drag, quietly exhaling it through his nose and mouth looking back to Mikey. The large boy simply sighed at their confused faces, clasping his hands together. Butch winced and the Hustler braced himself while Mikey took his stance. They already knew he was going to start reciting – but why and what about eluded the both of them.

"Oh to see a happier couple!" He cried suddenly "Although you've lived on separate islands for al these years a storm of good intentions crashed both lonely masses together to allow such bliss!" Before either boy could react to him, they were gathered up in Mikey's arms, rocked back and forth by the sentimental male "But! Fear not, my dear friends! I will not speak of your affairs and cause a vile storm to dampen such wondrous fireworks." He hugged them extra tight, making them choke and gag. "I did not wish to upset you, I just could not contain my glee at the vision of such a rare love blooming!"

The two boys, held together by the steel bands that were Mikey Blumburg's arms, were suddenly very aware of how bad this situation was. Someone knew. Not only did someone _know_ but they had blown it _way_ out of proportion and twisted it into something a lot more confusing than they wanted. So they squirmed, all too aware of how this looked and how close they were pressed together.

"Oh no no no no!"  
"You got that all wrong!"  
"Silly misunderstanding"  
"You can't be serious."  
"Yeah you're joking –good one!"  
"Yeah, had me going."  
"Haha! Oh boy. Yeah, but no."  
"We're just friends."  
"That's it. Good pals."

They kept moving and wriggling amidst Mikey's tight but well meaning hold until Butch finally broke free, stumbling across the blacktop. Francis was lowered to the ground a few moments later, looking kind of worried despite his usual poker face, and seeing him so bothered made Butch dig out a new cigarette and puff heavily. But, now that they had their footing, they felt better. Mikey wasn't holding them up to his expectations. They just were what they were and Mikey would have to understand. It wasn't like he had any proof otherwise-

"But dear friends! I've witnessed your love – in the hall of mirrors. Surely you must be coupled together to have shared an embrace, a kiss like that!"

They were screwed. They were totally screwed. Butch choked on his inhaled smoke and Francis seemed to be struck still. Both boys looked pleadingly at Mikey, begging him silently to drop the whole thing – or at the very least stop fucking reciting poetry about them. Someone was going to walk past and get the wrong idea (Hustler was already scanning the yard for possible eavesdroppers). Butch, sucking heavily on his smoke, tried to refuste it, but Mikey was so wrapped up in his fantasy of love and junk that Butch went with the first thing he thought of to get him to _shut up already_.

"I fell!" Butch said suddenly, drawing an incredulous look from Francis "I fell. Right over. Old building you know. Fell right over and pulled somethin. Old buiding you know – surprised you didn't trip on it." Butch took another deep drag to steady himself "Fran had to hold me up til I could move again. Had to use the mirror though – support himself 'cause I was kinda bein' a baby about it – but that shit hurts, you know! Burns like hell. So anyway he was holding me up and all the mirrors there are tilted and messed up so it must have looked like we were… that. Yeah- no. He was holdin' me, yeah, but not like…that. No way."  
"But-"  
"I know I know, it's not all nice and poemy and pretty an good and nice. But that's the truth. Why would I lie about something' like that, huh? Wouldn't do that to you, Mikey. No way."

Mikey looked at Butch sadly, his shoulders sagging some at his fantasy gone awry. He then looked to the hustler for confirmation who nodded solemnly when he tore his gaze away from the sudden outpouring of fiction from Butch's smoky mouth. Defeated, Mikey relented his need to verse, and took a deep breath.

"Alas, that which comes must go, I suppose."

With that (before Butch or Francis could think to dispute that there was _nothing_ there in the first place), Mikey bid them adieu and left them alone in the alley. Francis made sure he was gone (Butch was too busy lighting up another and puffing away) before approaching the storyteller. He placed a careful hand on his shoulder, prepared for but disheartened somewhat by the way he twitched. Francis offered a small smile and a shrug, squeezing the shoulder under his palm gently.

"He's – he fell for that, right?"  
"Of course."  
"He's kinda gullible, and that was pretty good for a spur of the moment thing, right? Not my best work, but it… it worked, right?"  
"I think so. He seemed to buy into it."  
"So we're okay." Butch assessed, nodding to himself, stubbing the smoke out on the wall. "We're fine – you know, so long as he don't blab."

Francis nodded again and patted his back, hoping that Butch was correct, but knowing he probably wasn't. Butch knew it too, and he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to focus on the warm hand on his back for a few minutes.

O/O

Mikey, the kind and thoughtful boy he was, dutifully reported his findings back to the group so as to clear up an confusion and possible rumors. Gretchen tried to depute him, but was unable to back herself up, seeing as how she had asked Galileo had trashed the data, thinking it was useless and an invasion of privacy (plus- if her parents found that on her computer she would be seriously grounded). Everyone else seemed to accept the news with aloof agreement to still keep quiet about it, and then promptly ran off to go challenge Lawson to Kickball.

Save their leader.

TJ called some serious bullshit on this one.

Normally TJ believed Butch to a certain degree. His stories were lies, yes, but had their roots in truth more often than not. He thought of Butch as more of an embellisher than an outright liar – and he thought of Francis as a pretty honest businessman. In this case, though, too many things didn't add up right and TJ couldn't swallow down such a quick change like Mikey could. Plus, now that it was out there, he kinda saw that Butch and Francis maybe kinda sorta had a thing going on. Maybe.

The more he thought it over the more it seemed clear that Butch was lying to cover up what he was sure was nobody's business. But, rather than agonize whether or not there was a situation to protect in the first place, TJ decided to skip all that fluffy espionage stuff and just go straight to the source.

Surprisingly, the first (and only) source he could find was Butch. The hustler, though on his rounds, seemed hell bent on avoiding TJ and any one of his friends in particular, even going so far as to stumble into opposing territory to avoid doing business with them. TJ settled on Butch to pester. He'd rather know the whole truth before he went back to protecting a secret, anyhow.

Butch wasn't too hard to corner. There were only so many shadowed alleyways on school grounds, and if one were able to follow the thin trail of cigarette smoke then one would inevitably find Butch or someone who knew where Butch was. TJ lucked out, having only to check two alcoves before getting a nose full of smoke, finding a nervous looking butch at the center of the cloud.

"Hey Butch." TJ said, skipping the formalities and covert stuff to promptly scare Butch into dropping his smoke. "Oh, uh. Sorry. Hey you alri-"  
"Yeah fine just great! Hey there Teej, how you been? Whatcha need?" Butch blurted, digging into his pocket for another cigarette "Wanna hear a story? Or you want one tailored to scare your sis again? I got plenty of both- just as soon as I find my light…"  
"Ah no. Nothing like that. I kinda wanted to ask you something." TJ paused, watching Butch nervously paw around for his lighter,, find it, and light up "You sure you're okay?"  
"Yeah fine never better what's up?" Butch exhaled, seeming calmer now that he had tar in his mouth.  
"Okay. Uh." Tj shifted his feet, then stepped further into the shadows near Butch, who backed up accordingly.. "I'm not gonna beat around the bush here, so I'll just come right out and say it: Is there something going on between you and the hustler?"

Butch seemed to stop dead, nearly loosing his cigarette again. TJ had drastically underestimated how awkward this was turning out to be, and he winced for Butch, trying to look sympathetic. Maybe this wasn't the best idea, but he couldn't take it back now.

But then Butch started laughing. First it was hollow and soundless, but then his whole body got in on the act and warmed up with it. He mouth curled into a grin and he took a short drag, laughing out the smoke and shaking his head like TJ was so sadly mistaken it was funny and sad at the same time.

"Ha! Oh man oh man, do you guys got some crazy ideas. You know you're not the first of you guys to come up an' ask the very same things. Haha, oh man. But no. No nothing like that. Nothing going on at all. Not a thing. Well, we're pals. But that's it. Good pals. Like you and Spinelli."  
"I dated Spinelli for a few months." TJ interjected.  
"I meant you and Vince! You and Vince. Yeah. Just real close. It's funny didn't think I'd like the guy that much seems like a tightwad don't he? Yeah no he's pretty cool. Mhmm. Just pals. That's it."  
"So nothing."  
"Nope! Not a thing. Didn't hug him or hold him or do any of that lovely dovey junk in the mirror hall. Nope. "  
"Okay."  
"Yeah 'cause Mikey's got this crazy story. Funny really. Like we were all wrapped up in ach other or something and that's _so_ not what happened. I just kinda messed up my leg a bit but not to bad I'm okay now I can walk and stuff. Should probably keep off it anyway, right? Yeah that's what I thought."  
"Okay, Butch."  
"'Cause it's kinda funny really what he came up with and-"  
"Butch I said okay."  
"Oh. Yeah. Right."  
"Butch?"  
"Yeah?"  
"I won't tell."  
"Oh God _thank you_, TJ." Butch whimpered, deflating some "Please don't. And tell them to stop fucking _asking me_ Jesus Christ I can't do it anymore."

Butch relaxed some, slipping down against the wall until he was seated. He held onto the cigarette like it was precious, hugging his knees to his chest. TJ felt kind of bad. He'd sort of dragged it out of him. Then again, he looked better and less neurotic than he did before, so maybe spilling his guts or knowing someone else knew his secret made him feel better. But TJ was nothing but a curious boy, so he pushed the envelope a little more, wondering if he could get Butch to elaborate some – or at least clear up his last few questions.

"Not that it's any of my business" TJ started "But are you dating in secret or…?"  
"No! No no… we're just trying out a little arrangement, that's all."  
"Arrangement?"  
"Yeah."  
"Should I ask?"  
"I'd like it very much if you didn't."  
"Good enough for me! I'll get them off your back. Mikey especially."  
"Thanks."  
"No problem."  
"One more thing."  
"What?"  
"Mikey and Gretchen-"  
"Yes."  
"They said they saw-"  
"Yes! Yes they did. Drop it now. Please."  
"Okay."

TJ grinned and nodded, backing up out of the alley. Whatever the reason, he felt a whole lot better about everything. Knowing the truth did that, he supposed. And Butch seemed thankful that he was going to keep it private. What exactly Butch and HK were hiding was still kind of a mystery to TJ, but he figured that if it made them happy and didn't hurt anyone else (except for maybe Mikey, who seemed to be head over heels for the idea of them paired off), then TJ was happy for them.

O/O

"You're tense."

Butch whined in Francis' lap, wiggling away from the hands on his back. He knew he was tense. He had fucking reason to be tense. Right now though he wanted to fucking forget about it. Such was proving difficult with Fran's warm hands pressing down on his shoulder blades and spine like that. It felt good- great actually – but the added statement meant to be taken as a question negated the nice feeling.

He opened his eyes to stare at the back of Francis' leather sofa, partially blocked by the collar of his hustling coat. He attempted to bury his face deeper into the mixture of cloth and skin at the junction of Francis' shoulder, but the hustler wouldn't let him get away. He caught Butch by the chin and goaded a kiss out of him, keeping him in place some.

"Detwiler and his friends get to you?" Francis asked after a few moments.  
"Mhm."  
"M'sorry." Francis murmured, leaning back against the sofa "That's partially my fault."  
"How so?"  
"I avoided the hell out of them. I figured they'd take the hint if I didn't stop to chat. I guess they defaulted to you instead."  
"Prick."  
"Hey, I said I was sorry."

The hustler moved his attention to kissing Butch's sensitive neck, pressing his fingers into the taut back. He attempted to work out a few knots, but Butch seemed unwilling to sit still for it. Eventually Francis just gave up and focused on the entire body in his lap, feeling it out and playing with it.

"Fuck." Butch half moaned, falling off his lap dramatically to land twisted a bit on the padded seats. "We're totally boned."  
"I don't think so."  
"Explain why you're not stressed out like I am?"  
"I'd say something about getting off more regularly than you, but I usually go to you for that."  
"Shut up."  
"The way I see it TJ is as trustworthy as they come. He won't say anything if he promised to keep quiet."  
"You think?" Butch asked more quietly, peeking up from his spot.  
"I _know_." Fran insisted, "Now come back up here. I want to one-up your little stunt from before."  
"On your living room couch."  
"You want to wait until we're upstairs?"

Butch crawled up onto his lap and kissed him without any further argument.

* * *

**Crisis = Averted. Maybe. Well yeah. For now, anyway.**  
**Works for Butch!**

**Thanks for reading!**


	18. Tempest in a Teacup

**Hey! Longer plot chapter! Oh boy! I hope you guys like this one as much as you liked the last one :D**  
**It's probably going to be a while before the next one with school and all, but I'll get at least _something_ of these two up every so often.**

As far as warnings go : Drinking. And some unfortunate consequences thereof. 

**There's really not much to say other than wow this needed a lot more editing than I thought. **  
**Enjoy!**

* * *

Business was business – or so he kept telling himself. Francis was a hustler- _the_ hustler- and the best around. He had a job to do, and he did it well and made lots of money, and that was all he really knew. But, staring up at the mound of discarded, steel-rimmed tired, Francis felt his resolve shaking ever so slightly. He wasn't afraid (not at all!) just a bit anxious. Once he stepped inside he was on their turf and had to worm his way around their rules – or at the very least survive them. He'd thought long and hard about skipping this investment, letting it simmer and just doing casual business, but the thought of losing the chance (or worse yet – losing it to _Fingers_) superimposed itself over his nerves.

He knocked on the door waited, unconsciously dusting himself off some and standing straighter. Look good, formal, and at least somewhat trustworthy – especially for his newest (richest) customers.

After a moment the door creaked open and the soft, melodic voice of Ashley A. called him in.

He took a breath to steady himself and slid in.

Having landed successfully, Hustler stood and brushed himself off. He looked around the clubhouse out of compulsion, taking in the details before his focus snapped to the four socialites seated perfectly on the floral-printed gilt-lined couch. It was almost unnerving how perfect and feminine everything in here was. He knew he should relax some, but he kept his back to the only exit and awkwardly (oh, that was a weird feeling) took a few steps in, pushing everything but business at hand aside.

After all, Francis considered, these wee essentially the same Ashley's he'd always dealt with, however fleetingly. Time had done little to change them. Ashley A. was still the pretty blond leader, decked out in the latest fashions and regarding him from her centerpiece seat in the exact middle of the couch – parallel to him (he'd be doing business with her primarily, he figured). On her left was Ashley B., who like Ashley A. looked the same- but had a recent switch in personality. She had always been rather headstrong herself, and from what the hustler had heard she was looking into restarting and maintaining the family business – and was already succeeding. On Ashley A.'s right sat Ashley Q., who upon entering high school had embraced her athletic talent (and the chic sporty look) and currently fought tooth and nail to captain every sport. Rumor had it that she gave Vince LaSalle a run for his money – and Francis was inclined to believe it.

The only one he didn't see was Ashley T., and that made him worry more than the china-doll like look of the visible three. He wondered briefly if the rest knew about their long-running affair. It had ended a few months ago, and since then he hadn't really seen much of Ashley T. Francis decided that she had gotten tired of waiting and found herself a new boytoy. Surprisingly enough, he was just fine with that, and took the seat they had set out for him, folding into it as gracefully as he could (it was obviously hand-made for someone smaller and more female than him), and giving them a charming smile despite his nerves acting up somewhat.

His assumptions that he would only be dealing with three of the four Ashley's were dashed when a small clattering of a cart sounded behind him (which, much to his embarrassment, made him twitch). Ashley T. came rolling up with a small, silver cart covered with lacy white tablecloth and littered with small porcelain odds and ends. He recognized a teapot and several teacups and eyed them suspiciously, forcing a smile when the Ashley's smiled at him.

"Hustler Kid. It's good to see you." Ashley A. said finally "How are you doing?"  
"Rather well, actually. If you'll pardon my bluntness ladies I was hoping we'd get down to- oh. Thank you." He took the tiny tea cup frm Ashley T. and set it in front of him "Like I said we should really-"  
"Oh Hustler Kid, you should, like, relax." Ashley A. supplied, "Take off your coat and, like, stay a while."  
"No no, I'm fine." He bit his tongue - almost correcting his title (the kid was no longer used, and yet she seemed to be making a point to use it).  
"We like, insist." Ashley B. chirped "Like, lose the coat and have some tea. It's like imported all the way from Florence."  
"Yeah you totally need to try some!" Ashley Q added, taking up her own delicate cup and sipping. "It's like to die for."

Francis smiled awkwardly, sinking back into his chair while the girls giggled. He didn't like the idea of taking off his coat. His whole livelihood was in its folds, but if there was no other way to keep Ashley B. from walking over and taking it from him (she was already getting up and slipping to one side of him), he shrugged it off his shoulders and draped it over the chair behind him. Ashley B. then diverted and re-handed him the cup of tea. Francis held it this time, glancing at the dark water but not drinking despite the four girls gesturing for him to do so.

"We promise it's not, like, poison." Ashley A purred, drinking from her own cup to prove her point.  
"I'm not that big a fan of tea…"  
"Oh please – We won't take no for an answer."  
"Ah… okay. I guess it couldn't hurt. But we really must be getting on with business-"  
"Sure thing. Go on. Have some. We promise you'll like it."

Chalk it up to nerves or (though it was a bit of a stretch) intimidation, but the hustler was ignorant of the silent conspiracy. Despite his usual keen eye, Francis somehow missed the knowing glances and half smiles exchanged between the girls, the clink and pop of a flask being opened and the splash of colorless liquid poured into his share of tea. Unaware of his misstep, Francis drank the vodka-laced tea china cupful by china cupful while the girls (who were, as always, masters of manipulation), slowly but surely worked him over with bleached-white smiles and high, hopeful voices.

O/O

Francis was feeling considerably pleased and joyous with whatever arrangement he just made. He wasn't sure about the details but he'd work them out later. He felt warm and fuzzy and really rather happy. More so than usual or ever, probably. He laughed aloud and waved to the lovely ladies in their weird tire house and their pretty smiles and their really good tea that he really needed to get the recipe for. But later. Now he had to go find… something. Or someone. Whatever. He'd figure it out on the way! That was the fun part of life, anyhow, the journey was everything and it began with some… cigarette smoke?

Butch! Francis liked Butch. He thought it would be a good idea to go see him now.

Francis, being Francis, had the mentality of someone drunk, but looked, walked, and generally acted like nothing was wrong. The only thing that was out of place was the unnaturally large smile on his face – and even that wasn't as unheard of as most people made it seem. To everyone in the yard it just looked like the hustler had closed one hell of a deal, and since he came from the Ashley's Clubhouse, then he was appropriately on cloud nine. They left him be, ignoring the sway in his walk and unnaturally large smile as he wandered into the nearby, slightly smoky alley.

As predicted, Butch was standing there, staring off into space, his mouth moving around his smoke as he muttered to himself. He wasn't crazy – just trying out words and sentences out loud to make sure they didn't sound stupid. Francis thought it was funny, and unabashedly strolled right into Butch's shadowy sanctum, promptly breaking the storyteller's concentration. Butch spasmed a bit, his head snapping up to see who was fool enough to wander in uninvited, but relaxed when he saw the happy hustler. Butch chuckled and shrugged, waving him in. Francis promptly took the invitation and slid in rather close, but even then Butch didn't balk. He merely smiled.

"What're you so smiley 'bout?" Butch cooed, pulling away his smoke "You finally finish paying off Mikey's Winger Dinger bet?"  
"Nooooo… I did that years ago. Yeah."  
"Then what's up?"  
"M'just happy to see you. Can't I be happy to see you?"  
"Well yeah, but you usually express it without the big creepy smile. And not in public."

Francis seemed upset about Butch's bland rebuttal, but only for all of three seconds. The happy smile bounced right back and, without warning, he pushed Butch up against the wall and kissed him, which in and of itself wasn't unheard of, but it threw Butch off enough to panic and push him away. He quickly looked around to make sure they weren't seen, and only then drew Fran back to his mouth, kissing him while stubbing his smoke out on the wall. Francis just went with it, settling himself onto Butch in a familiar way, blocking him in with his arms and surrounding him with his coat.

Despite the familiarity of the situation (it wasn't unheard of for them to want a bit of a fix during school hours- they were teenage boys, after all), Butch was still wary. Francis usually never approached him, and even in the rare times he did he was so much more cautious about it than Butch ever was. Something about this whole situation seemed off to him, but the warm hands on his sides and back helped him ignore the weird twist in his gut.

Or at least until he parted his lips to let the Hustler kiss him right.

He'd tasted the hustler before and, since a great deal of their encounters were impromptu, he'd tasted things other than minty fresh breath or the occasional flavor of gum or even the dull taste of saliva. It was a bit on the gross side to thin that he'd tasted Francis' lunch before, but there was a distantly sharp tang this time around that Butch couldn't quite place. At first blush it was just strong black tea, which was a bit different than Fran's usual coffee, but wasn't something to get freaked out about even if it was different than usual. However, when Butch breathed in, pushing his hand through the short brown hair and tilting his head to reciprocate the kiss more fully, there was a sudden sting of _something_ burning his nose and mouth that didn't add up at all.

Butch pulled back and stared, and when Fran opened his eyes to plead with him suddenly, Butch spotted the spidery red veins at the corners and smelt it on his breath with the exhaled, desperate sigh.

"You're drunk." Butch said quietly, then with more malice. "You're fucking _drunk_! What the fuck is the matter with you?"

Francis pouted and chose not to answer, trying to duck his head and kiss Butch again. The smaller teen squirmed out of his hold and punched him in the side, remarkably furious at the normally composed hustler for being _drunk_. It was too much and wasn't fucking _fair_. The hustler was supposed to be the stabled one – what the _fuck_.

Suddenly Butch was fearful. It was mostly out of concern for Francis – if he should be caught like this then he would most assuredly be expelled, and even if he could sponge off mom and dad or live as a high school dropout selling shit to people, his reputation would be slaughtered and credibility would be shot to hell. Not that Butch _should_ care, but he did, and he had to help the stupid asshole. The only way he could see out of this was to flee, and since Francis drove he had a pretty easy escape plan.

"We're going home. Give me your keys." He told Francis, holding out his hand.

Francis just smiled a smug, though still uncharacteristically happy smile, and stood back, his arms spread wide.

"Try and find 'em."

O/O

A hasty yet charming explanation, and awkward search, and an hour later, Butch got Francis back home in one piece despite Francis' insistence he veer off the road and into a tree due to distractions. Butch had to pull over and knot him up in the back seat and smoke a few cigarettes to calm down.

It wasn't that Butch was particularly mad _at_ him. Just frightened. He worried about Francis. He acted so _different_ when drunk. He knew he was in there and wasn't trying to be so _weird_, but here they were. Chain-smoking helped, but it wasn't curing his nerves. The situation was too familiar for his liking, and while he knew Francis wouldn't do anything to hurt him while sober, he didn't know what he'd do if he couldn't remember it in the morning.

He shook his head, helping Francis to his feet while puffing away on his latest cigarette. It wasn't the same, he kept telling himself. It was totally different. Francis was just a bit tipsy and he was always handsy around him. He was just a bit more clumsy and bubbly than usual. He could forgive the unneeded and unprompted kisses and sudden grasps to his sides and legs. It was just normal behavior for the two of them in private.

Once they were inside, greeted by the kind of quiet that made the air buzz, Butch felt doubly uncomfortable. Francis seemed to know where he was and stood a little straighter and lead Butch toward the living room while Butch held him upright. He kicked the door shut behind them and flipped the lock, then instantly regretted it. Fran all but dragged him to the nearby couch and flopped on it over the back, taking Butch with him. Butch fell over the couch entirely, landing on his side while Francis landed face first on the overstuffed sofa. He laughed, then grabbed Butch up by the back of his shirt and attempted to drag him up with him.

Butch slapped his hands away and scrambled to the kitchen, trying to calm his hammering heart.

Having crushed his last cig falling over the couch (that was probably going to leave a stain in the carpet he'd apologize later), Butch lit up another and wandered around the kitchen, looking for coffee and filters and the damned coffee pot and repeating a the mantra '_it's not the same it's not the same_' over and over until he was forced to light up another cig. The shaking in his hands stopped after he found something to do with them, and he set about making a big pot of strong coffee. He usually didn't drink the stuff but he'd make an exception. Maybe it would quiet his nerves some. At the very least it _should_ help Fran sober up a bit, if the stories could be believed.

_It's not the same._

It wasn't. It really wasn't because he wasn't _trying_ to be an asshole or push him it was just what happened. In all other circumstances Butch would have been more than aright with it. Hell, if he hadn't tasted it he would have been on his back on the couch begging him to keep going. But the booze on his breath and the half-hollow look in his eye just unnerved him too much. It was too much like that time. He touched his scars briefly and then shook his head, filling the coffee maker with water and setting up. He had no idea how this thing worked, but if it kept him out of the living room then he'd figure it out.

He neglected to realize that Francis was not only able to stand upright, but navigate his own house rather well. As a result, he found Butch with relative ease, and wandered over to him as he smoked and huffed and puffed, focused on the sink and the coffeepot. The hustler was touched, and wanted to thank Butch for being so nice and taking him home. So he draped himself over the smaller male and attempted to hug him, though he couldn't make his arms work as correctly as normal. They got around the thin frame haphazardly, holding onto his sides and shirt. He inhaled and noticed how _good_ Butch smelled today, and then Francis remembered why he wanted to see Butch in the first place, and leaned in to kiss the closest patch of skin. He missed and ended up in his shirt, but it would do. He could work his way around.

Butch was hardly flattered. He yelped and attempted to wiggle out of the hustler's hold, but he just held on and kissed at his neck. Due to Fran's larger size and greater strength, Buch found himself pinned and though that and the hustler's roaming hands irritated him, he was rather amazed that Francis was still this good at feeling him up despite being totally smashed. That thought was passing, however, replaced by irrational fear. He tried repeating his little mantra over to himself, tried convincing himself that Francis wasn't the object of repressed nightmares or trying to be anything like that.

And then the bastard _squeezed_ and Butch just about fucking lost it.

He grabbed the nearest movable object and with a feral cry he swung. Whatever it was connected with a thud, and another thud accompanied it as the hustler's body fell onto the ground. Butch opened his tightly closed eyes and saw the toaster in his hands. Then he looked down and saw Francis, sprawled out and groaning on the floor.

"Oh shit."

O/O

Butch hadn't hurt him. At least he hoped not.

He continued to smoke, wandering around the house, mapping it out in his head (and using the old string trick to find his way back to the starting point). After his minor panic attach Butch dragged Francis to the nearest bedroom and barred him in with one of the hall tables. He was pretty damn sure it wouldn't hold if the other male didn't like being trapped, but it soothed his nerves marginally. His smokes, aimless wandering, and whiffle bat he pilfered from Fran's garage helped calm him down to a manageable level.

Despite his shaking hands he checked Francis out once he got him on the guest bed. There was no dent in the toaster or visible red mark or bruise on Francis, so Butch figured he hit him in the side or chest and just knocked him over instead of knocking him out. The hustler had taken to the bed rather well so Butch hoped he was no worse for wear and content with just sleeping it off.

Butch found a phone on his travels and called his parents once he got his voice to stay even enough to make up a convincing lie. He told his mom that he'd be stayin the night with Francis to work on a project and that he'd be back tomorrow after school. He assured her that he was fine there, and he would eat, and that he would sleep his regular eight hours and not goof off to play video games or act upon any number of any other worries she had. A second after he hung up he wondered why he didn't make the awkward leap from independent teen to momma's boy and ask for her to come pick him up.

Shaking off the idea, he made another few turns and finally stopped stinking up Francis' house, stubbing out his smoke in a convenient, decorative ashtray. He knew he should leaves and his mental health was surely going to suffer now that he'd trapped himself, but he couldn't make himself leave. If he did, something terrible would probably happen and haunt him for the rest of his days. Butch had enough traumatic events to cope with. He didn't need another.

Butch found his way back to the living room with the aid of the string and sat on the couch, fighting with himself. If he left now, he could be safe at home and probably get there in time for dinner. But if he left, then Fran could do something stupid like light himself on fire or fall of the bed and smash his head open or drown in his own sick. If he stayed, he'd be able to help, but he'd also put himself at some sort of risk if Francis decided he wanted to get up and have some fun.

The storyteller rubbed his eyes and shifted to lie down, sighing softly. He knew Fran wasn't like that. He knew he didn't mean it the way Butch interpreted it. But it scared him – terrified him. True, Butch knew he wasn't over the event that scarred him for life (literally and figuratively), but he didn't know he could and would still react that violently, especially around someone he more or less trusted and often fucked. Though he was rattled, he was slowly convincing himself that it was just normal behavior in a very abnormal situation.

But that raised more questions. Why was he drunk in the first place? Why would he seek Butch out? Didn't he remember Butch's sob story? Wouldn't that be a clear signal _not_ to come right on over? How often had this happened? Why was he still so good with his hands and his mouth even if he was drunk?

Butch found himself unwilling to try and devise answers. Instead, he drew the bat to his chest and shut groped for the remote. He'd just chill out. In a half hour or so he'd make sure that Francis was okay. He knew what to look for thanks to health class and various darker movies. He wouldn't give up on the hustler just yet.

O/O

Despite his resolve to do the right thing, Butch had to work up the nerve to actual put action behind the thought. He stole a pack of cigarettes and lit up, gripping the plastic bat to steel himself. He pushed the table out of the way and set it roughly where he found it and peeked in.

That was the extent of the first checkup.

The second time he was considerably less of a whimpering little bitch and he actually got a few steps in. He leaned over the foot of the bed and craned his neck to check and make sure his chest was still moving. It was, and Butch though himself a good caretaker. At least until Francis stirred in the bed, making groaning wake-up noises and shifting his weight.

He bolted out and smoked a few more cigarettes before even considering going back in.

A large pot of coffee, three more cigarettes, and an extra tight grip on the whiffle bat later, Butch tried for the third time. He took a few tentative steps in despite the obviously awake hustler stirring in the sheets. He swallowed, switched the cig from one side of his mouth to the other, and readied the bat before he spoke (in a regrettably shaky voice).

"H-Hey there Fran. How you feelin?"

The large body seemed to suddenly erupt from the covers, which made Butch spaz, but he grabbed the door handle instead of running in fear. He couldn't really see in the darkened room, but he felt Francis' eyes on him and they made him squirm something awful. The longer he stayed here, the worse this idea seemed to be. But he stayed put, partly to secure his own bravery, partly to know what Fran was saying. He was mumbling and stringing words together and hiccupping, but Butch could make out the gist of it.

"M'okay who's… issat Ashley? No… no she was-she was with the restof'em. Couldn't be. N- 'sucuse me no. Nope not her I went … I _found_ someone. Who? I 'member smoke and dark an-" Francis lurched forward and squinted hard in the thin light "Oooooh. Hi Butch!"  
"…hi."  
"Hi! How're – How _are_ you?"  
"I'm fine." Butch said warily "How are you feeling?"  
"M'good!" Francis laughed, lifting the sheets and blanket and then letting them drop. "M'_great_. Hi!"

Butch had to smile. It was too bizarre _not_ to smile. The Hustler – inept and so _bad_ with words and totally out of it was a rare sight to behold. Slightly terrifying, but rare and really funny. Butch wondered, though, why he was talking about the Ashley's (or was it just one of them) and why he was so happy to see him. He'd think later – so long as Fran stayed put in that bed and he didn't have to use the bat then he was fine.

By the time he refocused his attention onto the hustler, he was less deliriously happy and more… well, Butch wasn't sure. He'd tangled himself up in the sheets and was looking at Butch with a small smile, swaying back and forth.

"C'mere." He said, leaning forward far enough to tip him off balance (not that it stopped his eye contact any).  
"Oh no. No I think I'll stay right over here"  
"Don' be li-like that… c'mere an' see me."  
"I can see you fine from here."  
"Buuutch…"  
"No." He readied the bat "None of that. Just sit back and think of things that aren't nice. Cold things. Like ice. Or grandma. Or money."

Butch winced a bit and backed towards the door. Considering his luck money probably turned HK on more than it helped him sober up. At least he wasn't moving forward. Instead he stayed put, blinking lazily. Then Butch witnessed something he'd never thought he'd witness ever: Francis' eyes began to water and he sniffed. Then, all of a sudden, the happy turned horny drunk started to sob.

"My profits!" He wailed, falling back on the bed dramatically "They cheated me! THEY CHEATED ME!"

Butch backed up, nice and slow, and closed the door behind him.

O/O

Francis woke up in a room he recognized, but not one he was in often. It was one of his guest rooms downstairs – small and somewhat stuffy, but it had a bed and a closet and was more than enough for most people. Not that they had guests often. Francis had little time to think about it because he decided to move. Moving turned out to be a terrible idea. His head throbbed maddeningly and his stomach lurched.

He waited for the episode to pass, but the symptoms merely dulled. So he groped blindly and kept his eyes shut. Mercifully, he found the small bottle of aspirin stashed away in the drawer, next to the spare sleep shirt and pants and monogrammed kerchief. He fished out two and gagged them down and waited. It took a while, but he was able to sit up and move and open his eyes.

The hallway was dark, mercifully dark. Francis managed to get to the kitchen and spotted the time on the microwave and the stove and the clock radio all reported that it was ten-thirty or sometime near that. The only other light in the whole house spilled into the kitchen from the living room, splashing over the tiles and into his eyes, making him hiss. He stumbled toward the source anyway, more curious than willing to give in to self-preservation.

Staggering into the living room (after sucking in a breath and covering his eyes, the sudden harsh light nearly making him retreat, he spotted the table lamp and the television as the sources of light. In the middle of both pools of light was Butch, spread out on his couch, cuddling a bat. Francis blinked, then shrugged, having seen him do weirder things. He leaned over Butch some and cradled his own head, brushing some hair out of Butch's face and shaking his shoulder lightly. It was late, his head was killing him, and Butch didn't look like he was willing to spend the night unless he was heavily armed.

"C'mon." Francis croaked, surprised at the roughness of his own voice "C'mon and get up. You gotta go home."

Butch stirred marginally, hissing in a breath. Francis took the remote from under him and shut off the TV, then shook him again. Ever the stubborn one, Butch squirmed but didn't wake – that was, until Francis tried to reclaim his plastic bat. Then Butch's eyes shot open and, upon seeing who it was, tried to punch him. Francis hadn't been expecting that reaction, so he staggered back into the coffee table and into the nearby ottoman with a heavy grunt. None of that motion was any good for his headache.

Francis struggled into a sitting position and stared, bleary eyed, at Butch, who was holding the bat aloft and looking at him quizzically.

"What the hell are you doing?" he asked, shutting his eyes and taking a few breaths.  
"What are _you_ doing?"  
"I'm living -_barely_- in my house. And I'm trying to get you to go home so I can sleep off this terrible headache… I feel like I've been run over."  
"You don't remember?"  
"Remember what?"  
"Most of the afternoon."  
"No I just went to the Ashley's to do some business and then that's about it. What happened? Did I get reamed by a wayward maul ball?"  
"No, but you got reamed alright."

O/O

A few cups of coffee and one long explanation later left Francis sitting at his kitchen table and Butch leaning against the sink, drinking a glass of milk despite the fresh pot beside him. Francis' headache was still terrible, but he tolerated the dimmed kitchen lights, keeping his eyes mostly shut to focus on listening rather than looking. It suited Butch just fine. He was squirming a bit when he explained – and for some stupid reason he told Francis everything that had happened, including unwelcome advanced and the subsequent toaster swinging. Francis had nodded quietly and muttered something about the bat now making sense, but Butch pressed on to his hypothesis concerning the Ashley's and a few hangover remedies he heard worked okay.

The room lapsed into silence. It wasn't exactly awkward, but it was far from comfortable. Butch was afraid of a demand for payment or a sudden demand that he never speak a word of this (he never would). Francis was more concerned with his unacceptable behavior and Butch wanting to cut off all ties due to totally understandable trauma. Both wanted to apologize, but neither were sure _how_ to go about it.

Francis kicked out a chair for Butch, his head still lowered to block out the lights, and waited. It took a bit, but Butch finally got the hint and slid into the chair beside him, clutching his glass. The hustler lifted his heavy head, cradling it in one of his palms to hold it up, and regarded Butch. He looked haggard, maybe a little embarrassed, but not frightened or uncomfortable. So Francis took the chance and used his free hand to grasp Butch's forearm gently. Butch didn't flinch, and that made him infinitely happier.

"M'sorry I did that."  
"You didn't mean it."  
"I know. But it shouldn't have to happen- especially since you were trying to help. Thanks for that, by the way."  
"I couldn't just _leave_ you there.-"  
"But you could have. And you didn't. And for that I thank you."  
"That mean you're not going to charge me for the toaster?"  
"Yep. Won't charge you for the stuff you stole either."  
"How did you-"  
"You left the garage door open."  
"Ah."

Though his speech was hushed and slow and sort of gravely, Butch caught all of it and was more than happy to accept the terms of Francis' thanks. He found himself smiling some and even scooting toward the sobering hustler. Why he was getting so friendly he had no idea. He blamed it on some sort of protective instinct, and resolved to help him get upstairs to bed.

"You think you can take a shower without drowning yourself?"  
"I will try my very hardest." Francis started to stand, holding onto Butch's arm and the table "You're staying the night?"  
"Yeah. Told mom early this afternoon."  
"We're not having sex tonight. If you'll excuse the cliché – I have a headache."  
"I know. I wasn't expecting any."

Francis looked at him, blinking languidly. How… bizarre. Butch usually constantly teased and angled for it. He never usually made this much physical contact (scooting close, patting his hand, pushing hair out of his face) unless he wanted some sort of relief. But then again he would be fool to question it. The very thought of continuous motion like sex made his stomach turn sour and his head throb angrily. He must have winced, because Butch pressed his cool fingers to his temple and made him feel slightly better. Moments later, Butch was standing with him and supporting a great deal of his weight, guiding him upstairs.

"Aren't you just full of surprises." Francis murmured, nudging him good-naturedly.  
"Shut up and walk. One foot in front of the other..."

O/O

Then free period rolled around the next day, the four Ashley's came out of the building arm-in-arm, clogging the doorway, chattering to themselves loudly and laughing, topping it off with a loud, chorused 'Scandalous!' However, their demeanor changed to reflect Ashley A., who remembered something, and was suddenly unhappy with her privileged life.

"Like where is Hustler Kid?" Ashley A. asked them, snapping her gum loudly "We need the tracking number."  
"I like, don't know." Ashley B. stated, just as snobbishly "Ashley Q.?"  
"He wasn't in first period. Have you seen him, Ashley T.?"  
"No..." She murmured, looking towards and alley, "But I might know someone who has." She cleared her throat and motioned for the other Ashley's to follow.

Unsurprisingly, they found the storytelling shadow-lurking boy with next to no fashion sense smoking heavily in the alley. After a short discussion they remembered his name was Butch, and Ashley A. took the helm and approached Butch, snapping her fingers to get his attention. He didn't look well – but they wouldn't 'dream' of giving him a makeover. He was far from having a spot anywhere _near_ their wall of acceptable boys.

"You, Butch. You have, like, classes with the Hustler Kid, right? We need to know where he is, like, now."  
"You're gonna have a hard time with that." Butch answered cryptically, refusing to look at them.  
"What?" Ashley B. scoffed "Like, I don't think you _know_ what you're talking about. Just, like, give us a clue or something."  
"That's not gonna help you. Nothing's gonna help you. Or him." Butch inhaled and exhaled smoke, his free hand balling into a fist. "God… it's not fucking _right_."  
"Like… what's not right?"  
"He was just a fucking _kid_, Jesus Christ."  
"Like who was?"  
"No one even _tried_ to help him – he could have been alright. But no one knew…"  
"Like what the hell are you talking about?" Ashley A. Snapped suddenly, sneering at the gibbering boy.

Butch looked up at them, pale and shaky, looking like he'd seen a ghost. Once he had their full attention, he dropped the bomb.

"The hustler is dead."

Butch wasn't an experienced stalker or actor, but he played his role damned well. He showed up where he was needed and played the part required, and as such achieved results. True, it usually ended up scaring people, and doubly so in this case, but this time it hadn't been tinkered and toyed with. Butch had just flat out lied. Artlessly and tonelessly. And it had worked _better_ than he'd ever expected or experienced with his masterpieces. He wasn't sure how to feel about that. So he just shut his eyes and sighed, putting his head in his hands and 'composing himself' before nodding to them and wishing them the best. Then he promptly made escape.

Once vanished into his alley, the Ashley's subsequently erupted into high-pitched, panicked chatter. They all but ran back to their clubhouse, slamming the tire shut and raising the flag to notate an emergency meeting. Butch rubbed one eye and took a few calming breaths, smiling widely and almost laughing. He pulled his cell phone out with one hand and a cigarette and lighter with the other. He punched in a number, lit up, and was finished with his first drag by the time someone answered.

"'Lo?" Francis croaked on his end, coughing wetly after and then groaning.  
"Oh good. You're not drowned in your own sick. You're ahead of the game!"  
"Not so loud, please."  
"Still fighting that headache, huh?"  
"Remember that metaphor I said last night about a truck? Still that bad."  
"It was a simile, actually."  
"I'm hanging up."  
"Aw don't be like that. I'm sorry it still hurts. It'll get better in a while. You took more aspirin?"  
"I took more aspirin."  
"Good boy."

Francis sighed into the phone and curled up on his side, picking at the side of his blanket absently. All things considered – this was actually pretty good. The Ashley's were out of his hair, if not traumatized to boot. It would take a while to earn back his profit outright and live down the humiliation of being duped like that, but they were out of his hair for good. It made him feel a bit better to know that – and even better to know Butch had a hand in it. He was probably going to get an earful when he showed up tomorrow, but that was tomorrow. While he mused, Butch murmured stupid things to him, little bits and pieces of advice, then sweet nothings. Francis put a stop to it when Butch defaulted into talking dirty.

"As much as this is helping my headache" he interrupted blandly "I think I should attempt a shower."  
"If you'll wait another five hours I can take one with you."  
"I'll pass."  
"Raincheck then?"  
"Sure. Why not." The hustler more or less ignored the weight of a promise behind that agreement. "Anything for the only man I know who could kill off his best friend without shedding a tear."  
"I was going for 'shell shocked' instead of grieving. If you need tomorrow off too I'll burst into hysterics and get sent 'home' by third period."  
"How sweet. Remind me to kiss you if I can move my head without wanting to throw up."  
"It'll pass, trust me. And I'm holding you to that, too."

Francis laughed and snapped the phone shut, rolling over onto his back. He was feeling better already.

* * *

**Annd that takes care of that! Ashley's are now neutralized. Fanny is going to get quite the reception tomorrow, being not dead and all, but I think hell manage. Butch will probably just laugh a lot. **

**Thanks for reading!**


	19. Geekster

**Hey everyone! Here's a chapter I had no idea I was going to be adding until a couple of days ago. My friend/beta/cohort decided there needed to be a reaction chapter, and I am all too happy to provide. It didn't turn out as in-depth or character building as I would have hoped, but thems the breaks (aka - I'm sorry I suck :/)**

**Enjoy**

* * *

The next day, Francis strolled onto the grounds with Butch nearby, discussing nothing in particular. The previous night passed without much trouble. Francis had slept and Butch had hovered around and eventually got into bed with him, mooching off his warmth and the covers and the perfect mattress until Francis rolled over in the middle of the night and knocked him out of the bed entirely. Butch's only regret was that Fran's headache had disappeared while he cussed the sleepy salesman out.

That morning had fared slightly better. The hustler let Butch back into his bed and they picked each other apart and made out until they had to get ready for school. The walk there (Francis refused to let Butch paw around all over his car) was uneventful and quiet for the most part, each party occupied with their own thoughts. They'd started talking some in town, near the high school, but it was mostly pleasantries and bits of teasing.

They had forgotten entirely that reportedly Francis died a day or so prior.

Phil was the first to see them. He saw Butch first, paled, and lifted his rope as if to defend himself. Butch regarded him with a painfully bored expression and shook his head, already sick of the scout. He lit up, turned, and waited. Phil eyed him, about to dismiss the strange smoking shadow kid as an oddity before Francis came meandering around the bend, chattering quietly into a cell phone. At the very site of him Phil dropped his rope, his jaw, and his boss attitude. His knees quivered and he shook, staring openmouthed at the undead hustler.

The Wild Screaming Woodchuck Scout screamed and ran away, wildly flailing his arms and warning everyone that either a ghost or a zombie of the hustler had followed Butch from the graveyard or hell or someplace to kill everyone. Everyone, who didn't really like Phil but knew how to become a panicked mob fairly quickly, scattered like marbles upon seeing the hustler follow Butch into the school limits.

"This bodes well" The hustler sighed deeply, rubbing his temples, watching the students scatter and plead for their lives.

Butch was too busy laughing to properly give a damn, much less the luck the hustler was going to need for the rest of the day.

O/O

Francis looked around, eyeing the fanned out Ashley's standing while he sat, all glaring at him. The hustler thought briefly that this was what adults did to kids in trouble, or what they did at an intervention. He thought he should feel ashamed of himself, but he was too busy biting his lip, trying not to laugh at the memory of them screaming bloody murder and flying in different directions away from him.

"Either you like wear this or we hang _this_ everywhere." Ashley A. stated firmly, holding up the contract, dotted with his shaky signatures and initials. "And we'll, like, tell everyone we know what horrible service you, like, provided."

The hustler looked at all of them slowly, searching for any sign of broken or forced compliance. He only found some small measure of anger and shame among smirking stone faces. He thought that maybe, possibly, he could have shirked around this scandal if they merely put up flyers. No one read anything anymore, much less one peppered with as much legal jargon as that. Francis was glad that they weren't threatening legal action if he didn't comply (theoretically they couldn't – they were under age, but still).

As it stood, however, his reputation was still on the line. He couldn't remember what was in the contract, but he couldn't deny them or snatch it from their hands (he'd tried). That left him with one option, as much as he hated it. So with a sigh he resigned, sitting back in the chair and crossing his legs.

"What do I have to do?"

O/O

It wasn't unusual to see kids wearing dressy clothing in school. Between debate clubs, Mock Trial, various sporting events and Menlo, who always had some sort of dress shirt and tie, there were quite a few besides the staff who saw fit (were forced) to look a bit better than the rest of the slouching teens.

This being said, Francis was still managing to attract some serious attention in his suit. The hustler was used to performing for a crowd, but the stare and whispers and slack jaws were becoming uncomfortable and confining. The few people who dared to scoot up and ask about the getup got a grumbled answer concerning a court date immediately after school. He drove off most of the inquiries that followed it up by answering 'attempted murder' (they usually got the hint).

It wasn't the brave souls who actually talked to him that bothered him. It was all the whispering. The looks. The stares. They were so bad at concealing their fascination with the body that lurked under the coat Francis caught himself wondering if he couldn't use this somehow to boost sales. He shook his head at the thought. His profits were suffering because no one would walk up to him (he wasn't sure which was to blame _more _for that- his sour mood or the suit), and he was beginning to seriously considering telling the Ashley's to fuck off and tear this stupid thing off of him.

But he knew better. He had no choice. So Francis clenched his jaw and held himself high, carrying on about his business despite the stares.

Then suddenly there was a wolf-whistle from the shadows, and Francis was groaning already, his hand flying up to his temples on reflex alone. Another one sounded, coupled with a low, lecherous laugh. A smirking face and embers greeted him, then unabashedly licked his lips and winked.

"Oh baby, nothing like a man in a suit all prim and proper." Butch cooed, low enough that only the hustler could really hear "Makes me wanna mess it up."  
"Shut. Up."  
"C'mere and say it again – slower."  
"I will beat you within an inch of your life."  
"Oh baby sexy…" He grinned impossibly wide "How much for an hour?"

Butch beckoned the hustler into his alley, and much to both their surprise Francis wandered right in. He reasoned it was an escape, that no one would bother him aside from Butch, and he knew he could deal with one catcalling son of a bitch, even if he was sure Butch was going to be the worst of them all. At the very least he could rough Butch up a bit and he wouldn't run scared. Not that he planned on it coming to that.

But then Butch looked at him and grinned again, and the hustler wanted _badly_ to punch him.

"Not another word." He warned "I'm not in the mood."  
"If it makes you feel any better, it really _does_ look good on you. I'm even diggin' the glasses."  
"They're fake." Francis deadpanned, tapping the frame "And they're starting to give me a headache"  
"How much longer?"  
"Just for the rest of the day."  
"Is that what they say?"  
"No. It's what they're going to get. The shipment comes tomorrow. I'll put a hold on their account."  
"Blackmail? I'm surprised at you"  
"You'll be surprised when I smash one of their faces in." He sighed, removed the glasses, and rubbed the bridge of his nose "This is fucking humiliating."  
"What the hell are you going on about?" Butch snapped, "The Ashley's call that getting even with you? You're a total fucking catch like that. People are drooling over you."  
"I look like a geek." Francis spat, pulling the glasses off his face and rubbing his eyes again. "Could they have found some more obnoxious frames?"  
"It's what they do." Butch admitted, shrugging "But they're _in_ this season. What the hell are you doing talking to me for? Go get yourself some tail."  
"It'll be hard to come by."  
"Again, what the hell are you talking about? Expensive suit, nice frames, a fucking briefcase. You've got the body, the look, and you fucking _reek_ of money. You're sex on legs, HK. They'd be falling all over you if they didn't think you were gonna snap their neck."

The hustler turned to counter him, a comeback sharp and ready on his tongue, but then he stopped. Something was… off. Very off. Francis shut his mouth and stared quizzically at the other male. Butch stared back, squirmed, and hid behind his cigarette. He didn't like the turn this suddenly took. It was kind of freaking him out – they way Francis looked at him.

"You seriously find me attractive." Francis stated finally, a smirk breaking over his face.  
"I do not!"  
"You just gave me like a million complements."  
"I was being nice!"  
"You said I was sexy."  
"So? You say I'm cute! That doesn't mean anything."  
"But did you mean it?"  
"I'm getting out of here." Butch dismissed, turning away and searching for a smoke.  
"Did you mean it?"  
"Go away!"  
"Butch!" Francis grabbed the back of Butch's jacket, tugging him back. "Do you really think I'm good looking?"

The other man clammed up immediately, looking stubbornly away, but Butch was flushed, and that was enough of a tell. Francis was mildly flattered, but then again he sort of expected it. Why would Butch sleep with him if he wasn't at least somewhat physically attracted? Still, it was strange to have Butch admit it, as roundabout and unintentional as it turned out to be. It boosted his self-esteem some – he hadn't realized how badly he needed that boost. Suddenly he felt less like an asshole and more like (as Butch said) a damned good catch.

"Thanks, Butchy boy." Francis murmured, forcing the struggling male's head back and stealing a kiss "I know you didn't mean it but I feel better now."  
"Damn."  
"I'll make it up to you."  
"Your place later?"  
"Sounds good."  
"Keep the suit on."  
"No promises."  
"Killjoy."

* * *

**Hey look at all that awkward. Wow. It's getting hard to take you guys seriously.  
This is gayer than all the gay sex they've been having. I can't believe I wrote this. I don't regret it, but I'm still laughing at it.  
Also, I'm sorry if I insulted any fans of Phil. He just got the short stick and got the piss scared out of him.  
I'll have something relevant soon. Promise.**

Thanks for reading!


	20. Observations

**Hey look! Gratuitous smut! I know how much you like it. **  
**The next chapters that are plot relevant are coming, I swear. It's just taking a while. Rewrites and school are not good pals. I can't get them to be civil for the life of me.**

**Enjoy!**  


* * *

Butch was suddenly on his knees, rubbing the front of his pants. Francis quirked a brow, leaning against the wall and checking both ways to make sure no one was spying.

"You know you don't need to pay me like this, right?"  
"I know."  
"Then why do it at all?"  
"Practice."

Hustler shrugged, watching him stroke and nuzzle the clothed cock. He wasn't horny, but Butch was doing a good job of getting him that way. Still, though, the hustler was cautious. This relationship- if it could be called that- was less than publicly decent. They've had sex in this spot a few times before – angry, rough, needy sex that left Butch with bruises and him with bite marks. Not that he was complaining.

This blowjob stuff, though – it was different. The way Butch did it, anyway. Sometimes. For some reason, it felt more personal, more intimate, and much less angry than the sex they had. Sure, it was a way to get off and he appreciated the variety – but it was nice to be essentially worshiped and not expected to return the favor.

"Butch."  
"Hm?"  
"Get up. We're going somewhere more private."  
"Oh?" Butch shot him a look, getting up "What's the occasion?"  
"You want to practice and I'm horny. Let make it worth while for the both of us."

O/O

Hustler sat back on his bed. He had hung up his coat and told Butch to do the same. He hadn't invited Butch in too often, so he was taking his sweet time looking around. When he finally launched himself onto the bed, he made a noise and squirmed around. The hustler wondered, watching him roll around and grin on his back through the messed up bi-colored hair, if he was maybe drugged or somewhat drunk. It would explain the sudden interest in paying him back with a blowjob.

"Mm… wanna try?" Butch asked, rolling over on his stomach.  
"I think I'll pass."  
"S'matter – not good enough for you?"

Francis kept his mouth shut. In this haze he'd say something off putting or mood killing, and Butch might never do it again. He wanted this to happen again. Hustler felt like maybe, just maybe it was better than sex. Butch took his silence in stride and continued what he started in the alley. He crawled over to where Francis lay, rubbing his legs to get them to part.

"Sit on the edge of the bed, would you?"  
"I'm comfortable here."  
"Fine. Be difficult."

Butch shrugged and settled himself over one of Francis' legs. He was still rubbing so the hustler spread his legs in response, leaning back and waiting. Butch made an agreeable noise, pulling himself up a little more. Francis jerked when he felt the cold hand slide up under his shirt. Butch chuckled and pressed his fingers down a bit, drawing the shirt up and out of the way.

Now the hustler was interested. He sat up a little bit to watch Butch work, going so far as to get rid of the article Butch was struggling with completely. Butch grinned and bit his stomach, just below his navel. Francis hissed.

"How the fuck you get so ripped, anyway?" He asked, tracing the muscles he made spasm  
"Moving boxes, refusing to sit still. Other than that, nothing comes to mind. Like it?"

Butch glanced up at him and bit him again, tracing the lines and his hipbones. Francis watched him be fascinated, waiting idly for him to get to it. He reached up to hold the shaggy head. Butch laughed at him and lifted his eyed, taking the waistband in his teeth and tugging at it playfully. He soon gave the zipper the same attention, pulling it down bit by bit.

Francis understood now why it was more intimate. Butch kept eye contact. He kept it a lot longer than he did at any other point, even just talking to him. His eyes were nice, now that he was looking. They were dark now, almost black and they had some sort of weird smolder in them. He looked like he was concentrating and totally into it, which was more arousing than Butch probably realized. He smiled at Butch as he pulled the denim away.

"Are you going to play all day or are you going to practice?"  
"Patients, Franny." Butch murmured, taking his gaze from him to pull his pants away completely "I'm practicing my entire technique. I thought you liked drawin' it out."  
"Just commenting. Please, take your time. You're… interesting."  
"I was hoping for drop dead sexy. The kind that could make you come in your pants and still beg for more. Guess I need work."  
"I think you should stop watching bad porn and romance movies all in one go."  
"Who asked you?"

Butch laughed, catching his eyes again. Francis raised a brow and waited. He didn't take too much longer, reaching up to paw at what was hidden under then fabric of his shorts. HK groaned in spite of himself, exhaling loudly. Butch threw him and glance and held it steady, waiting for him to break it, almost daring him to. It took his cool, long fingers slipping into the slit of his boxers to get Francis to shut his eyes and break the contact first. Butch merely grinned and turned his eyes down to the task ahead.

The hustler opened his eyes at the slow, careful tugs to his prick. He watched, curious as to how Butch found this so entrancing. He was concentrating, alright. What the hell was so interesting about pleasing him? Most girls just sighed and got it over with. Butch was weird, but that didn't stop him from lifting his hand and threading it through the shaggy hair, gripping it gently. Butch looked up at him again, a grin on his face.

"Edge of the bed, please." Butch murmured, lapping at him. Francis was in no mood to argue, and he slid forward a bit, Butch easing himself down onto the floor. He settled, stroking and licking the sides of his cock like he was chasing drips off an ice cream cone. Hustler shivered and tugged him forward a little, which made Butch chuckle. Rather than start, as Franny was oh so subtly indicating him to do so, he pressed his tongue to the underside of the head and held it there until Hustler began to squirm and arch.

The storyteller peered up expecting to find his face the same that annoying way it always was. To his pleasure, Butch found those grayish eyes clouded over and unfocused. And he hadn't even gotten started yet. Not one to rush things, Butch continually teased him. He swirled his tongue around the head, stroking the slit. He only slipped the head in his mouth to keep Francis from whimpering – though he didn't bother hiding his grin when it only made Franny moan and whine _louder_. Seemed like once he was alone Fran could loosen up a little. It was pretty sweet.

He took his time, stroking whatever he wasn't edging into his mouth with his hands. The whimpering had subsided, replaced with heavy breathing and careful tugs on his hair. He wasn't trying to rush him or choke him, just make him move a little more. It was either a bit of hair pulling or- forced choking. He'd rather the former, but then again he didn't have much of a gag reflex. So why not test it?

He pulled back, licking his lips and catching Fran's muddled eyes again. He felt the larger make shiver and twitch in his grasp, and he couldn't help but grin. He slipped the waiting, slicked cock in his mouth again, bobbing his head around it a few times. He took a deep breath and, before he could rethink it, swallowed the hustler's dick down until his nose pressed into his stomach. He was fairly sure he heard choking in the background, but he held him there, swallowing placidly around the cock in his throat until his lugs demanded he stop trying to choke himself.

"Fuck!" Hustler rasped.

Butch withdrew, licking his lips and panting. He eyed Francis, who slowly got back enough of his vision to notice he was staring upside down at his headboard. When he lifted his head again Butch was still staring a smile on his face. He licked the head of it, the side, then slipped it back into his mouth and repeated the motion. This time Francis was able to keep from throwing his head back, but couldn't stop himself from cursing softly.

"Tsk tsk…" Butch murmured on his second trip up for air "Such language and vulgarity. I should leave right now."

Francis held back his comment – partially because he wasn't able to speak without moaning helplessly and partially because he wanted very, very much for that to happen again. He groaned instead, pulling him back toward his crotch. Butch laughed at him and, despite his threat, bowed his head and sucked greedily.

He wasn't sure why he was enjoying this so much. He never thought he'd be the kind to love the cock. It wasn't bad, not as bad as he'd originally thought. It took a while to work up the nerve to blow Franny's mind (literally) and lots of studying. Butch figured it was the accomplishment. He liked being the one in charge being the one to make him squirm for a change. He liked the way Francis cursed and writhed under him. He liked the way he made Fran beg silently and beg audibly. It was great, actually, to have this power over someone as powerful. He bobbed his head and sucked particularly hard and grinned at the noise it tore from him.

Butch had fun teasing him - that went without saying. He bobbed his head and sucked. He pulled back and licked the sides and the head of it. He even went so far as to carefully, carefully scrape his teeth up the base. Francis screamed and bucked- surprising Butch. He thought it would weird him out but if Fran was a freak like that… but if he was going to buck like that he was going to choke and actually bite him. Maybe when he had more practice. Just teasing the hell out of him was fine.

Before long, Francis was rolling his hips and whining. He seemed to try to tell him something. Butch brushed it off and enjoyed the writing and the hands in his hair. He sucked and bobbed his head, Francis forcing it a bit more. Butch accepted what he was given. He heard the hustler whine and whimper something awful, felt him grip his hair tighter-

Butch swallowed it down. He hadn't been expecting the sudden shot, but he was already sucking off more than he intended to at the beginning, so he just took it in stride. He tried his best to keep Fran from choking him, pulling back enough to let some of it fall and drip on his chest and stomach. Butch coughed, wiping his mouth and watching the hustler pant and gasp for air.

"Well? How was I?" Butch asked after a moment, swiping up the little bit of come he didn't catch and licking it off his fingers.  
"Uhn?"  
"So, what? Good?"  
"Mhm."  
"Can you form sentences? Oh, no, that's too much. Words. Can you form coherent words?"  
"No."  
"Awesome."

Butch crawled up onto the bed, pulling up his pants as he did so. He took advantage of Franny's small period of incapacity to steal a good potion of his bed for his own selfish needs. He debated on asking to stay the night, and before he could really think it through the question flew from his lips. To his surprise, the hustler merely opened an eye to peek at him and nodded, catching his breath. Butch shrugged. Oh well. If Franny wanted him to stay the night on this amazingly comfortable bed, then so be it. He was probably angling on another blowjob, but this was too good of a mattress to waste any time.

Now, that he was up here, though, he yawned. Damn, it was a nice bed. He wouldn't mind just… laying here and catch a few winks. He yawned, shifting a little. Francis was warm and comfy as his bed

O/O

It was ten AM. Hustler was awake, and had been for the past two hours. Butch was perched happily on top of him, in a deep sleep.

They were missing school.

Actually, they had missed enough to qualify them for cutting, so going back was pointless. Still, hustler was a little upset – he was losing money to Fingers, and even though he liked Fingers well enough he wasn't willing to hand him free chumps.

He wasn't much willing to make Butch move either.

He knew he could just move the storyteller off him. Hell, he could fling the skinny bastard into the wall. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. So he lost a few bucks. Butch had more than paid him back with that amazing blowjob last night. He was fine with missing school for once. Even with Butch perched on his chest all curled up like that. He looked like a little kid. It was kinda cute.

Francis blinked at his own thoughts, but shrugged. It was just because he wasn't being an ass. Not like he loved the guy or anything. He could probably torture the little bastard with it later. He smiled and leaned back, resting on his bed with Butch happily resting on top of him.  


* * *

**Yeah. No excuse for that. Not a one. Hope you liked it, though!**

**Thanks for reading!**


	21. Cute

**So yeah. Remember that plot thing. Well it's not here. More filler. But hey, at least it's cute right? You guys like cute meaningless drabbles. Who needs an actual story right? ...Right?**  
**... I'll go back to editing the plotty bits now. **

**Enjoy**  


* * *

Though he thought himself as more mature than most of his peers, Francis fell victim to certain teenage missteps. Eating too many sweets before bed, procrastinating on school work, staying up late and subsequently oversleeping, and his latest vice: teasing the hell out of his friends. Granted, he only had one friend (that wasn't also a business partner who he couldn't really insult without running the risk of losing a crucial contact), but he made up for the lack of friends by relentlessly torturing the one he had.

Which explained his constant use of a single word: Cute.

It was, quite honestly, the perfect word. Short, sweet, simple, and it annoyed Butch to no end. All he had to do was smile the slightest bit and Butch would instantly be seething. The second the word fell from his lips he would start ranting, getting far more pissed off than he could ever make the hustler with his myriad of pet names.

What bothered Francis about it was that the more he thought and the more he used it, the more the word and Butch seemed to attach to each other. After a while, he found himself thinking it casually, mentioning it without wanting to set Butch off on a tangent (he always did, but sometimes he didn't mean for it to happen). The fact of the matter was that Butch was now cute to Francis, and he couldn't for the life of him understand why. Of course he blamed it on his teasing, but if that were the case he should have been able to be rid of it by now – he'd found other words to use on Butch that made him just as angry (mostly throwing the pet names right back at him). But he couldn't shake 'cute.'

The more he thought about it, the more perfect the word seemed to fit him. Butch was smaller than him, and small things were generally cute. He had big brown eyes and a thinner body and longer hair, so Francis figured that made him seem girly in comparison to himself, and therefore cute (somehow – girls were usually cute, right? At least the ones he was attracted to). Butch had hyperactive mannerisms and mood swings and a huge imagination that he often felt necessary to share with whoever would listen, so that made him somewhat childish, which made him cute (though HK had never really cared for kids all that much). He tried to act tougher than he was and would put up or pick fights with him, and that was cute because it was absurd and he would lose. His laugh was cute, his inflections were cute, his tone and face and smile were all cute. Butch was just fucking cute and Francis couldn't explain it to anyone, not even himself, without sounding really gay or totally smitten.

Which was something of an issue.

They were not an item. It was a convenient arrangement, and he was pretty sure he didn't feel anything special toward the storyteller other than occasionally (okay - _often_) horny enough to fuck him. Everything else he filed under purely visual, sexual interest (they were fucking, after all) and friendship. He wondered if he was wrong, but he never dwelled that often. It didn't seem important to start hyper analyzing a finite relationship. It was bound to end – he said so himself.

Problem was Butch was so damned cute sometimes he almost felt like he didn't want it to.

Like now, for example. Butch had come over to work on their project, but mid way through Butch had gotten distracted, and while that wasn't unusual, he seemed hell bent on distracting Francis too. The hustler didn't fall for it, leafing through textbooks and shoving Butch off his side when he attempted to lie there and do nothing. In a fit of not-quite rage he'd started calling the other male names. It wouldn't have bothered him, but he just kept talking and talking and talking. When Francis finally looked up Butch threw a pillow at his face, then made a lewd gesture and called him a pillow biter.

Francis had then, understandably, tackled him.

They wrestled for a few minutes, not really fighting so much as childishly prodding at weak spots and flipping each other over. Eventually HK had stopped fooling around, flipped Butch onto his back, and kept him pinned there with relative ease despite his frantic struggles. To still him, Francis lowered his head, nuzzling his neck and nipping the pale skin. Almost instantly Butch calmed down, tilting his head back so Francis could get at it better. The larger male readily abused this, kissing his way to Butch's mouth, turning this roughhousing to something different entirely and not all that upset about forgetting schoolwork for now.

"You're cute." He said suddenly against Butch's mouth. He didn't even mean to get a rise out of him. It just fell out.  
"Shut up."  
"You _are_." He insisted (for some reason), "If you'll just accept it the world will be a better place."  
"I am going to punch you in the face"  
"Try it. Cutie" Okay, _now_ he was trying to pester him.  
"You're a dead man when you get off of me."  
"So I'll just lie here, then."  
"See, you're screwed both ways 'cause I like that outcome too."  
"What makes you think I don't?"  
"Weren't you just bitching at me about getting this done."  
"Fuck it."  
"Don't you mean 'fuck me'?"  
"Nope."  
"No?"  
"No. You have to admit you're cute first."  
"You little bastard- it's not… shut the fuck up."  
"Aw, you're red. How adorable."  
"Fuck you, you son of a bitch!"

Butch went quiet, instead trying to find a way out of the hustler's hold, squirming and twisting. He wound up on his side, but was still trapped beneath the larger body. Francis lowered his head to kiss his neck again; figuring that line of conversation was over. Butch barely reacted, though, too lost in thought. A moment later he squirmed in Francis' hold, twisting his upper half to look up at the hustler.

"You mean it?" Butch asked  
"Mean what?" Francis murmured, busying himself with Butch's collarbone.  
"I'm – never mind."  
"What."  
"Nothing!"  
"Do I think you're cute?"  
"Just drop it an lemme up-"  
"Yes."  
"What?"  
"Yes I think you're cute. You are. Is that an issue?"  
"I can't stop what you're thinking, even if it's-"  
"Oh cut the self depreciation crap. You're cute. Girls like that."  
"They like manly men."  
"I have six boxes of shoujo manga that are ready to sell out in twenty minutes to prove you wrong."  
"Six boxes of what?"  
"Comics featuring mostly cute guys. Girls love that shit. They've even come up with a fucking term for it."  
"Other than cute"  
"Yep."  
"What about you?"  
"Hm?"  
"You have a thing for cute guys now?"  
"Suits my purpose." He cupped Butch's ass and grinned "Cutiepie."  
"You are seriously dead."

Francis ignored him, lowering himself onto Butch, compressing him into the carpet. Butch put up a token struggle and gave in, putting his arms around Fran's neck. For a while they laid like that, ignoring their homework and instead paying attention to each other. Their earlier animosity, however playful, seemed to be forgotten. But then Francis made the mistake of forgetting Butch's earlier threats. He heard his phone go off in the next room, and got off of Butch to go get his phone.

It took him five minutes to finish the call, and another two to pry the enraged storyteller off of his back and fling him into the wall.

The impact made him wince. He hadn't meant to throw that hard, but then again Francis would _not_ fucking tolerate being ambushed. He scooted towards the slumped male. He looked alright, if not a bit dazed from knocking against the wall. Figuring Butch as a threat was neutralized, Francis hovered over and then finally knelt down beside him, pressing a few fingers under his chin and tilting his face up.

"Ow." Butch said, blinking. "You're a prick."  
"You snuck up on me."  
"You threw me into the wall!"  
"It's a standard retaliation technique."  
"For some overblown muscle-bound psychopath!"  
"I resent that." He helped Butch to his feet, holding him by the lower back "Did I really hurt you?"  
"No, not too bad. Didn't even hit my head."  
"What was that thump then?"  
"My ass."  
"So I'm assuming that it doesn't need more pounding tonight. Great. We can finish that project."

Butch made a frustrated noise that morphed into a groan of pain. Though the thought shouldn't have struck him, it did. Francis thought it was cute. Not butch being in pain, but the scrunched up face and frustrated, sex starved whine that came before the injury. The idea rang and rang in his head to the point where it actually forced a physical smile. Butch asked him about it (even after Francis tried to avoid the question by kissing him) going so far as punching him in the arm and threatening to choke it out of him.

This time, however strong the word rang in his head at Butch's pout, Francis wisely kept his mouth shut.  


* * *

**Yep. Not much to say here. **  
**Don't let this momentary lapse fool you- Francis will continue to badger Butch with this for the rest of his natural life. Don't you worry.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	22. Keeping Calm

**We interrupt your non-existent plot to bring you another piece of irrelevant HK sad. I know how much you all love it. **  
**Yeah, there is little to no point to this other than pick poor Francis apart some more. I feel bad that I keep making his life worse and worse, but it will get better. Butch helps!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

A day off.

These words were alien to him. But, being forced, he had no choice. No choice but to wander around and look for something to do. Fingers would flip out on him if he went home to his garage, and Tammy was probably on the lookout too. He couldn't go back there just yet. School was over for the day. He didn't really have people to go and talk to that weren't hustler-related so he was out of luck for company He thought about getting food, maybe coffee, but those places would be mobbed. He didn't want to deal with a crowd – he' be too tempted to work. He hated waiting around, but he really had no choice.

Maybe people-watching would kill some time.

He settled on the wall, crossing his arms. He watched people stroll across the street. He saw a few joggers. He saw an old jogger lap them further up the road. He saw a dog walker. He saw some skateboarders he was pretty sure were too old to be skateboarding. He was a couple of really nice cars pass by. He spotted a couple in the adjacent alley, spending a little time together. He watched a child across the street run far to fast and fall, right into the pavement. It was almost comical, but he wasn't laughing. He watched the mother, he supposed, lift the child up and brush off the sobbing kids knee and hug him but his mind was elsewhere. Somehow, that seemed so familiar, so lucid it was almost like he had fallen.

He remembered running. No. He had been walking. He had been looking at all the store windows, trying to get mom to look too but she didn't want to look and she was so angry and she teetered and wanted to go home but grandpa didn't want that he wanted them to be out on a walk so Francis was looking around he was looking around and his mom that lady she was getting frustrated and angry and she hated the little boy there and she pushed him down and he fell and he gasped and his leg was open and he was bleeding and it stung so he cried and grandpa the old man he was upset now and pulling him onto the sidewalk and yelling at the smiling lady and whispering to the crying boy and he needed to sit down he needed to sit down right now or he was going to puke.

Staggering into the nearest alley, he covered his mouth. This… it was strong, this time. He was usually able to best the memories. It was hard to put up the golden child front but he had done it for _so long_ now that he should be better than this. Deep, deep breaths through some fingers. Keep it inside. Just relax. It will pass. It always passed.

He felt dizzy still, his mind wandering around like a sick animal, teetering on its feet, almost certainly ready to fall right over. He took a few breaths, struggling to keeps his eyes open while he brain seemingly pitched around his skill with all the grace of a practiced drunkard. He tried to make himself resurface in the real of things that made sense, out of the reach of memories terrible and good alike. Just a moment. He'd only be a moment. He just needed to think. His stock, items he was carrying. That was better. Bits and pieces of his life came back to him and he eagerly snatched them up, rebuilding that front he was supposed to keep intact.

His name was Francis. He was a hustler. The best Hustler in these parts. He had hundreds of contacts, seven of which he needed to talk to before the day ended, fourteen he needed to remind of debts before the seventeenth, and another twenty or so to talk about trading. He went to high school, this was his tenth year. His grade in English was lacking a bit – and there was a paper due in two weeks. Nothing he couldn't get done on his lovely day off. He was thinking about having pizza for dinner – he cooked up the rest of the chicken for dinner last night. He wasn't sure if he had laundry to do but he could take care of that when he got home. He loved old music and was made fun of for it. Hs parents had vanished somewhere, leaving him an empty house he really should fill because he was already slipping. He could call Butch – the only real non-hustler friend he had the only sex friend he had ever remember having. Butch wouldn't be busy. He never did much of anything. He should do that – go find Butch. He felt better already.

He wondered, then, why Butch calmed him so.

Surely it shouldn't be so. Butch was everything he wasn't, or at least everything he didn't want to seem like to his customers. Butch was a compulsive, obsessive liar. He wasn't (or at least wasn't supposed to be). Butch smoked like a chimney and hid in alleys scaring people. He was clean and relatively approachable. Butch seemed like a stalker at times. He, at worst, seemed shady. Butch couldn't be trusted. He could. Butch was flighty. He wasn't. Butch was –

Butch.

All this aside, Butch was really… something. Unique. Unlike him-one (though the best) of many hustlers- he'd never seen another Butch. He was interesting and engaging and kind of addictive, if that could be applied to a personality. Butch was a friend, a confidant, and ready, willing, and able to service his needs. Regardless of what they were. It was part of their arrangement. It hadn't moved past sex, but it had run the gamut from there to innocence.

Butch was…comforting. That much was true. He was there constantly, almost eerily right there when he needed him. If he was having a bad day, Butch would appear once or twice to ruffle his feathers and get him back on track. A little bit worse of a day and he'd stick around, playing buddy. Make it a it worse and Butch was more than willing to get on his knees and suck him off, or writhe under him while they humped each other. And should he be past that realm of comforting, then Butch would agree to have sex. It was a… better way to get rid of his anger than punching people or relentlessly following them to shake down left over debt. Butch didn't mind. He liked it rough, almost relished in the bruises and bite marks. The rougher it was the more he liked it.

But there was something wrong with that. The more it happened… the more Francis wanted it to stop. He wanted to… not be angry any more. He wanted to be gentle, kind, loving. It confused him. He had no feeling, no reason to feel like this toward anyone. He thought it was because Butch was a friend but he had other friends and he was never affectionate – if that was even the right word- toward them. They were more like business partners. Maybe it was the sex that brought them loser, figuratively speaking. But Butch didn't seemed this vexed. He knew what he wanted and he took it or received it or whatever he felt like that day.

Confusing, but the more he and Butch cashed in on their exclusive deal, the more he felt like doing things that were…. Abnormal. Things that he saw in movies but never bothered to do with any other bed partners. He was kind of looking forward to meet with the storyteller, keeping him close, watching him. He made sure that certain people left him alone. He made exceptions for him – sales wise and personally. Hell, he didn't even have to have sex to satisfy him (though it was a much better way to end the night). Making out was more than fine. Holding him after sex when it happened – even keeping him in his bed for the night- was a first for him.

It wasn't as if he was against it, it was just odd. It was fine. He'd just never been exposed to it. He had his share of hookers and less than reputable women. He hadn't felt any need to cuddle them. He hadn't exactly been coddled as a child, either. The only person who had treated him really, honestly with love and affection was his grandpa – and he'd died years before. His uncle was a huge dick, trying to use him to get more cash. His father was no better, and that was on the rare occasion his dad was even home. And his mother – she was the worst if them. Now that he thought about it-

He wrinkled his nose. He was better than self-pity. So his family sucked, so what? Never bothered him before. It was… just they way he was taught, was all. That was it. Dwelling wouldn't do shit. He was getting all this nice guy stuff from movies, probably. Nature versus Nurture. Nature, apparently, wasn't dominated solely by family. That didn't seem like the right way to treat Butch, the way he had been treated, so he found another position to copy. Emulating something fake. Fake with Fake. It worked better that way. Butch appreciated it. Maybe.

He was going to lose his mind if kept thinking.

Hustler stood, rubbing his temples. Maybe a day off was a bad idea. He couldn't sit still, couldn't relax. The only thing that calmed him was work. Or at least that used to be the case. Butch was now the new calming tool, the new drug, the new process. A refreshing change, a stronger high. He might tire of it eventually but it was okay for now. Hustler coughed and stepped into the light. The sun helped him wake up, slip into a more normal mindset. Kept the dark parts, dark memories away. No, that made him sound crazy. He wasn't crazy – he was just a bit… off. Not that anyone would know. He just needed to keep working.

He stepped out, trying not to stagger and toddle about, taking a few breaths. He'd go bother Fingers, get some trading in. He could forget, then. If that didn't work, he'd find Butch. Butch worked. Butch was more than enough. Even sitting there, a movie, dinner, something, anything to keep him from thinking please.

"Hey there babydoll."  
"I'm going to punch you."

Butch snickered at him, blowing a few smoke rings. Another thing. Butch was calming and frustrating. He'd recently picked up that Fran and Franny hadn't bothered him nearly as much as it did a month ago. He'd been trying new nicknames. Hustler had tried to keep from reacting, but he couldn't help it. It was getting insulting.

"Don't like that one, baby?"  
"Stop."  
"Something buggin you, sugar?"  
"Nothing aside from you."  
"Really? Is that why you stared angrily at the garbage can for ten minutes and then staggered out like a drunk?"

Francis twitched, looking up at him. He'd been there long enough to be seen. Who knew what Butch had seen, what he could have muttered. He didn't, he'd been _thinking_ you leave when people think it's called privacy you asshole.

"No, seriously, are you okay?"  
"Fine."  
"You look kinda sick."  
"Are you busy?"  
"Uh… no."  
"Good."

Before Butch could even bother to shoot back with some sarcastic remark that was probably on the tip of his tongue, Francis had shoved him into the alley and claimed the tongue in a kiss. Butch squirmed a bit but relented and returned, gripping his coat. This was good. This was right. He felt better already. His mind cleared when he pulled back, panting a bit while Butch tried to kiss him again. He gripped the bi-colored hair and pressed his forehead to Butch's, shutting his eyes and breathing. It felt good. Felt better. He wasn't thinking much anymore.

"So are we going somewhere?"  
"Yeah. Just a minute." He opened his eyes, finding Butch looking a bit confused "Yeah. Let's go."

Butch grinned and kissed him again, pulling him into the alley, sliding him back into the dark. It was alright, though. He was alright as long as he had someone else there. It made him more sane. He could play the role he was supposed to play when there was someone to watch. Butch didn't seem to mind, stopping often as he guided them home to kiss or grope him. The more he stopped, the more they touched and the closer they got to the bedroom the better Francis felt. He remembered who he was, how he was supposed to be. Butch was here. This was more than enough.

* * *

**I'm sorry HK. Have some fun and feel better :/**  
**Next one will be plot, I promise.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	23. Punchline

**Hey look one with plot this time! And it really is one. It might not seem like it, but it is. Seriously. **  
**There's a whole bunch of cute and just as much sexy. I like it when things balance like that. Whee! **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

He'd convinced Butch to come to a hotel for a change. He had explained that his parents were actually home for once, so it probably wasn't in their best interests to go there for the night. Since Butch's parents were almost always home and his mother was the best host in the world, it wasn't a good location for the occasional makeout, much less the sex they were planning on having. Butch figured they'd end up fucking in a car or in an alley or bathroom or something. Hustler suggested a motel. He knew of a few that were clean and relatively deserted (something Butch teased him about until he got punched in the arm).

Upon getting here, however, Butch suddenly felt more nervous than he thought was normal. Maybe it was being out of his element, someplace unfamiliar. Maybe it was that he was more or less whoring himself out –motel and all. It wasn't exactly seedy looking, but it was still a motel. If anyone saw him there – saw _them_ here – they would more than likely already know what was going on and that could only lead to terrible things.

Francis patted his shoulder and kindly pushed him out of the car. He seemed unfazed by the setting and offered Butch some reprieve, volunteering to go half and half on the room and be the one to show his face to the innkeeper. Butch took him up on the offer and casually slid into the closest mass of shadow, lighting up a cigarette and taking a deep drag. He waited while Francis bartered down the room price. He emerged just as Butch finished his first smoke and was attempting to light another.

"Get any redder, Butch, and you could light that cigarette off your face." Fancies commented idly, examining his hand.  
"You know, I _could_ break your whole goddamn face" Butch growled, "But then where you keep that pretty smile?"

They went silent for a moment. Hustler could see that Butch was replaying what he just said in his head. Sure enough, he choked, stiffened, flushed redder (like that was possible), and turned on his heel, fully intent on fleeing. He could get home alright on foot. On the way he could try and figure out how in the hell that comeback got inside his head and how he could be daft enough to let it out. Stupid mouth and brain and thinking.

He got a good lead, but then Fran cleared his throat and called to him.

"Butch."  
"Wha?"  
"Come here."  
"No."  
"Butch."

Butch turned despite telling himself not to, standing his ground for a moment. The hustler smirked, tilting his head ever so lightly. He raised and arm and, maintaining constant eye contact, crooked his finger, beckoning him. Butch, still red, gulped visibly and turned back. Francis grinned. He won. He a_lways_ won. Was it fair- No, but who cares? He liked it when he won. Watching Butch stomp back to him in defeat was far too adorable to pass up. Horny little buggar could never resist him…

"Damnit why don't you _ever_ turn red?" Butch grumbled, stopping a few feet away from the triumphant hustler. "It's not fucking _fair_."  
"It's not." He affirmed, "Try saying something unbelievably sexy or ridiculously cute. I'll admit, you almost got me with that one, but watching you replay it in your head was funnier. You're too cute."  
"Bastard." Butch hissed, batting away the hand that was trying to pinch his cheek.

Butch snorted and made a face, pointedly staring at the ground while Fran slid his arm around his shoulders and started to lead him towards their room for the night. Gradually, it morphed into an expression of deep and obvious thought. Fran was too busy contemplating how utterly adorable Butch was to notice any evil plots he could have been coming up with. They reached the room without much more incident and Francis let them in.

Butch took it upon himself to cash in the silent offer of the crooked finger almost immediately, pinning him against the door and kissing him. Francis chuckled, but reciprocated, sliding his arms around the others waist. It barely took a few touches and a nip to his neck to get Butch moaning for him. The hustler kissed him deeper, sliding his hands through the brown and white hair, pulling him in. The storyteller eventually broke the kiss to nurse his burning lungs. He looked deeply into the others eyes, his face pinked and his lips parted.

"Take me to the place only you can take me to…" Butch whispered.

There was a moment of silence.

And simultaneously the both of them burst in to laughter. It forced the two apart, cackling like mad. Hustler was red, all right, but mostly because he wasn't able to breathe. Even Butch couldn't keep himself from clutching his sides and doubling over at his own expense. Had he really just said that?

"Butch-" Fran managed to gasp, still kind of laughing, "S-sorry hah… you weren't, weren't serious, right?"

Butch started laughing again, managing to shake his head no. Glad he hadn't pissed off the other male, Hustler laughed too. It took a while, but both regained their breath and crawled up on the bed. Little spurts of laughter still struck them, but they managed to calm down enough for Francis to cuddle Butch without him being able to do anything about it. Butch was content to giggle and snicker every so often there in the dark with Fran's arms around him and his chin digging into his shoulder. Once he got the feeling back in his sides, though, he started to squirm a bit, turning in the hustler's arms to get to his face again.

"No more one liners, please." Francis murmured, half resisting a kiss.  
"No promises."

Fran chuckled and rolled over, lazily pinning Butch to the bed. Said male let out a pained noise only to be sharply nipped. He grinned, groping around blindly for a few minutes until he found the opening in Hustler's coat and slid his hand inside, liberally exploring.

"Before we get started…" Butch mumbled between kisses "Turn on the light and make sure we're not in the middle of a crime scene, wouldja?"  
"You need to stop watching those crime dramas."  
"But they're so much fun."  
"They're full of shit."  
"Turn on the damn light and satisfy my weird paranoia, damn you."

Francis grumbled a bit and fished Butch's hand from his coat and rolled off of him. He wandered over to the wall and flicked on the light. Butch looked around while Francis shed his coat and hung it in the closet. Once the storyteller was suitably satisfied (after he checked the bathrooms and knocked on the walls for a moment), he shrugged off his own coat and threw it on the nearest dresser, crawling onto the bed to join Fran once more.

"You make a good pillow." Butch stated, draping himself over the stretched out, off duty hustler.  
"You make an equally good blanket." Francis retorted, lacing his finger through the longish hair. "Though you seem a bit cold. Wanna turn up the heat?"  
"Double entendre? I'm surprised at you Franny."  
"I actually meant the thermosta-"  
"Shaddup I know what you meant."

Butch huffed and crawled up the body until he was level with the amused smirk and promptly attempted to kiss it off. Hustler wrapped his arms around the other male and held him there, kissing him back. It was a slow start, but the way Francis figured their day ended at noon tomorrow. Surely they could get something more done between now and then. With that in mind, he flipped Butch over and pinned him to the bed, to which Butch rolled his hips and squirmed around until he managed to somehow get on his back.

"How the hell did this happen?" Francis asked, his face in the pillow with Butch tickling his ears.  
"I'm just that damn good." He murmured, nibbling here and there.  
"Come back down here."  
"No. I like it up here."

Francis would have put up more of a fight if Butch hadn't started to rub his back and shoulders. He wasn't particularly good at it, but he was warm and it felt marginally good so Hustler put up no fight. The nips to his ear and neck weren't convincing him to move much, either. The grinding was kind of nice too – so long as Butch didn't get the illusion he was topping tonight. Eventually, though, Francis turned to look at him, shooting him a smile before thrusting his arm out and all but whacking him off his back and sandwiching Butch between himself and the bed once more.

"You're no fun."  
"Nope."  
"Stop that hand thing…"  
"Also nope."  
"But I'm already-"  
"I know. That's not gonna stop me from taking forever."  
"Do that and I'll just start spitting more one liners."  
"You wouldn't dare."  
"Try me." Butch hissed "I gotta million of 'em."

Before any could escape, Francis kissed him deeply, demanding entrance into his mouth. Butch was especially lazy about it, winding his arms around the larger males neck and kissing him back. The hustler slowly rolled his hips against the others, rubbing slowly. He left Butch to decide what happened next. Though he expected some form of sex it didn't have to be full on. They'd dry humped to completion more than once – normally when there was a privacy or time issue. Since there was none this time around, he suspected Butch would be a little more daring, especially considering how he could bug people in the adjoining rooms.

His suspicions were confirmed when Butch's hands slid up under his shirt. He smirked and broke the kiss; lifting himself up so he was straddling Butch's hips. He stripped his shirt off with a bit of flourish, letting it drop off his arm and somewhere onto the floor. Butch seemed to approve, raising a brow and licking his lips. He sat up; balancing on his one arm while the other ran over his chest.

"You're chiseled like a God baby, the Greek kind."  
"You have _got_ to stop talking."  
"You just don't know how to accept a damn complement."

Francis kissed him, pulling him up by the back of the neck and holding him there. Butch moaned and continually groped his chest. The hustler smirked a bit and worked on stripping him of his shirt, too. Butch shivered a little and latched to Francis, sapping his warmth the best he could and groping him every which way. Francis wasn't too lazy with his wandering hands, either, and he grabbed Butch's butt hard enough to make him squeak.

Hustler pushed him down on the bed, grinding their hips together again. Butch made a variety of happy noises, rolling his hips around wildly, trying to get more friction, more contact. Francis was all too happy to comply. Somewhere along the line they broke the kiss to use their mouths elsewhere. Francis went directly for his neck while Butch was content enough to moan aloud and murmur endearments, his vow to make terrible one-liners forgotten for the moment amidst the excessive love bites.

"What are you thinkin' 'bout in those cloudy grey sky eyes?" Butch managed once Francis lifted his head.  
"How best to fuck you into the mattress."  
"Oh, you're good at these cliché things too."  
"Shut up and raise your hips some more."

The hustler squeezed Butch's ass again and smirked at his badly stifled yelp. He grinned and slid his hands inside the denim, feeling around. Butch reciprocated, though he was a tad more forward. He blatantly wormed his hands between them, latching onto him with his legs to make up for his hands. Within moments Fran's pants were opened and already slowly moving down his legs, an eager pair of hands feeling him up. Francis moaned appreciatively into his neck, nipping rather hard.

"Your hair looks like a tornado hit it." Butch mumbled, messing up his hair further.  
"Shush." Francis nipped him again "Take off your pants."

Despite his demands Francis was smiling. Butch seemed pleased enough with himself and was quiet for a few moments, helping rid himself and Francis of their pants. As an afterthought, the hustler grabbed up the blanket under them and covered them with it. He'd be damned if he give anyone complaining about noises a free show. Butch smirked up at him and wriggled comfortably in the new warmth, bringing him down for another kiss.

"I know it's against your idea of fun" Francis started, kissing down his chest a bit "But please try to be quiet."  
"Aw, but I wanna scream for you baby." Butch was grinning "You make me feel _so_ good."  
"What did I tell you about talking?"  
"Oh God don't stop."

Francis chuckled in spite of himself, nuzzling the pale throat until Butch started to whine. He ground their hips together, reveling in the feeling of skin on skin. Butch was beginning to wonder if or when they'd get any farther – not that he was complaining. He liked the grinding, but as he moved to ask Francis silenced him with a kiss. He was wiggling a little bottle in front of his face when he broke it.

"Aw… you always know what to get me."  
"Figured you'd like it."  
"Take me, stallion."

The hustler shook his head and pulled back a tad, wetting his fingers with the contents of the bottle and pressing them inside Butch. He protested a bit, wanting the whole thing all at once like always but Francis persisted. He knew better, and he'd rather anything than have Butch start bleeding and need hospital care. He'd even outlast the murmured overused phrases of endearment – however cliché and irritating they may be.

Somewhere along the line Francis kissed him if only to shut him up, which Butch did not object to in the least. He growled and grabbed at his neck, humping his stomach while trying to impale himself on the stretching fingers. Francis got the picture, slowly pulling his fingers out. Butch twisted around in anticipation, moaning a bit. Hustler smirked, slicking himself while Butch watched, trying to get his breath back to spew another overused line. He shifted the thinner hips before he could get the chance, making him choke on his words as he pushed in.

"F-Fuck you're so big!" Butch cried.

In all the times they've coupled, Butch had never once heard Francis laugh during sex. It was a strained, slight laugh - but it was still there, and it wasn't quick to go away. It was the closest he'd get to the hysterics balls deep inside. Butch snickered a little and licked his lips, watching Francis shake his head and lift his hips up a little bit.

"You have _got_ to stop talking."  
"Make me, stud."

Again the hustler was snickering, scratching his sides a bit to get him to shut up. Butch instead moaned theatrically and threw his head back, to which the hustler bit his neck swiftly. Butch yelped and jerked a bit, whining rather loudly. Francis took that chance to start moving in earnest, pulling out carefully only to slam back in. Hustler was glad to hear that it stopped him from talking, reducing him to grunts and whimpers for more.

It wouldn't be long for either of them, despite all of Butch's attempts to stall with terrible turns of phrase that ended in groans or whimpers. Again Francis just decided to lean forward and shut him up the best way he could. Butch seemed okay with it, moaning into his mouth, rubbing his cock against the muscled belly. Francis thrust harder, gripping Butch's dick and trying to keep time with his own thrusts. It wasn't perfect, but it was more than enough to finish them off.

Butch came first with a hoarse cry, Francis moments later with a grunted version of his partner's name. The hustler fell to Butch's side, breathing heavy. He was smiling, drawing him close before the thinner male could start twisting and turning around in protest of affection. Francis kissed the marks on Butch's neck, waiting for him to catch his breath and start asking for another round. When Butch did turn over, however, he was quiet. He seemed content with one round and was oddly silent. Francis eyed him curiously, waiting for the next words.

"No snappy commentary?" Francis asked, the silence getting to him -he was almost missing the noise.  
"I…. can't think of anything to say." He whispered, reaching up to touch Fran's cheek "I dunno if anything's… appropriate, yah know? Don't think I know any words that can describe this… weird, right?"

Butch opened his eyes after a few more moments of silence, wondering what was taking him so long to respond. He was a little more than surprised to find Francis' face flushed. Butch sat up, looking a little closer. He even reached up to touch the reddened cheek, which only made it burn hotter.

"That did it? Of all things _that_ did it?"  
"I…I'm just warm… with the blanket." He lied lamely, kicking the covering off. Butch ignored him.  
"Damn. All those lines for nothing. Good for a laugh though, right?"  
"I dunno. I prefer the moaning."

Butch snickered a bit and lay back down. Francis lay with him, thinking everything was fine. He pulled the covers back over them and, in an oddly affectionate act, cast his arm over Butch's body and tugged him close. He wasn't sure what would happen now, but by the stillness, he figured Butch was fine with one round, which was just fine with him too. Francis rested his head against the nape of Butch's neck, breathing in and out slowly. This was nice…

As Francis fell asleep, nestled there against his back, Butch caught himself smiling. He stared at the wall for a few moments, just smiling blankly with no idea why. He tried to figure it out, this smile plastered on is face, but he kept coming up short. He wasn't usually this happy after sex, and even the one-liners weren't all that funny when Franny wasn't reacting. He was just happy. He felt warm. He felt safe. He felt just plain _good_.

He wasn't able to sleep for the rest of the night it bothered him so much.

O/O

The next morning, Francis kicked him out of bed far earlier than any normal teenager should have been awake. Of course, the businessman was dressed and showered and ready, drinking his coffee and shaking his head at the lazy thing that was the normal teenager. Butch, who was exceptionally groggy because of his lack of sleep (a fact he didn't dare disclose to the hustler if only because he hadn't figured out just why he wasn't able to sleep yet) stumbled around and yawned a lot, inevitably snatching the brew from HK's hands and gagging it down.

"Rough night?" Francis asked, crossing his arms while Butch pulled on his coat.  
"Shut up."  
"We only went once. I'm surprised you didn't try to get more out of me."  
"I haven't slept in a couple of days, get off my back" Butch made a face "Ugh, how do you drink this shit? Is there even any sugar in it?"  
"I take my coffee strong and black."  
"Like your men?"  
"Aren't you just full of snappy comebacks? Are you sure you're all right? I know you're not exactly a morning person but-"  
"No, no… I'm fine."

Francis didn't push. He calmly waited for Butch to gather his wits, promptly kissed him thoroughly enough to get them to scatter again, and guided him out to the car. Butch was largely silent, blaming it on not too much sleep and not wanting to draw attention to them as they left the motel. Even dropping Butch off proved to be somewhat awkward. Francis thought he should lean over and kiss him goodbye or make plans, but Butch seemed less than willing to look at him for more than three seconds. Francis, just figuring Butch was in one of his weird moods, just let it be.

To his credit, Butch did lean over and kiss him one last time before scrambling out of the car and trotting back up to his house. He watched Fran drive off before skirting the house and slipping into his room through the basement window.

It was weird, how he felt. Like someone had punched him in the chest or something. Like something was worming through him, but it wasn't all that bad of a feeling.

It was probably something he just needed to sleep off.

* * *

**Aw, Butch. WHY SO CUTE, BUTCH.**  
**The dialogue in this was fun to write. It's my favorite part, actually.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	24. Aftermaths and Afterparties

**Yay! New chapter! New long chapter! New long plot chapter! Rejoice!**  
**So not to spoil anything, but there are a lot of reasons for you to _like_ this chapter but just about the same amount of things to make you pull your hair out in frustration. Just sayin'.**

**Enjoy! **

* * *

Butch woke up 4am exactly, sat up, and coughed dryly. He stumbled half awake out of his couch bed, hit every piece of furniture his shins could find, and half voiced curses as he staggered up the steps to the kitchen. He didn't dare open his eyes or turn on a light, instead groping around blindly, trying to keep his dream within reach so he could get back to it without much issue once his drink (half spilled on himself, the counter, and the floor) was done with.

By some small miracle, Butch kept a decent amount of liquid in his glass and kept the glass in his left hand. He didn't fall over or crash into anything that warranted more than a hiss and a curse. He plopped down on his bed and considered turning on the TV. There was probably a good movie on this late/early, but then he reasoned he'd never get back to sleep and be exhausted by the time he had to get to school. So instead Butch leaned back against the couch and sipped his water in the quiet dark. In a few minutes, after he remembered where he left off in his dream, he'd put the glass aside and then go back to sleep for the precious two hours before he needed to get up and shower and go to school. At least it was a Friday, Butch rationalized, and he'd be free for the weekend after six some odd hours.

The thought made him smile a bit as he shut his eyes and continued to think (the dream forgotten) about anything and everything that decided to cross his mind, his back comfortable against the cushions, the glass cool in his hand.

It was 4:10am when the glass shattered against the opposite wall and Butch began to scream. He toppled his night table and tore up his bed, screaming into his cushions before he threw them full force every which way, not even bothering to watch them fly into his innocent items before hurling the next one. They knocked into things, making muted thump-thumps as they crashed, then caused the thing they crashed into fall to earth in some crumpled heap. Breakable things were broken, unbreakable things were disturbed and put out of place.

When all was said and done, Butch seemed to take on the characteristic of an unbreakable thing, just knocked over and confused about being there. He was, however, a very, very breakable thing, and if anyone could see in the dark he was actually just as shattered as the glass he threw. Anyone looking closer would see a very strange sight indeed. Butch, all hunched over in the middle of what looked like a very strange warzone, gripping and chewing on his blanket, making little distressed noises into it and looking like he was frightened out of his mind, and at the very least like he was about to cry.

Butch paused and listened, hoping his outburst hadn't disturbed anyone in the house. Though his parents were both home, they were heavy sleepers, and Butch was a full two flights and two doors out of their hearing range. Some part of him was thankful – he wasn't sure how he was going to explain any of this – but a larger part was distressingly hollow and doubly frightened by the prospect of being alone in this.

He rubbed his face, looking still very frightened as he looked around. It was almost as if he was wondering who messed up his room so bad. But, Butch gathered himself and, gripping his blanket, crawled slowly over to his ruined bed, mindful of the debris littering his floor. His clock was the only thing that seemed to weather the onslaught, and it glared at him, it's numbers skewed as it floated in mid air, tangled in the turned over table.

It was 4:27 when Butch curled up in bed. He didn't sleep. Just 17 minutes ago he realized he loved the man he'd been sleeping with for months. He didn't sleep. He couldn't sleep. He was in love. With Francis. The Hustler.

This was going to be a very, very long night.

O/O

Butch swayed as he walked, almost stumbling but never quite doing so. He chain smoked since he left the house, his eyes downward and half open, counting the cracks, watching his boots, the frayed threads of his jeans -anything to keep him from actually consciously _thinking_. He considered skipping class to count blades of grass so he wouldn't be trapped within he boring, off-yellow walls, but someone would find out and then detention would be a million times worse. It would just be him and his thoughts, and he was sure he'd tear out of his skin if he was forced through that. The previous sleepless night had early done him in as it was.

How could he have let this happen? It was so simple that no one could fuck it up (aside from him – Butch thought bitterly, spitting on the sidewalk). It was sex. _Just_ sex. That' it. No strings attached. Friends with benefits. They'd pal around on most days and fuck when they wanted or made out of they wanted to blow off some steam but weren't that horny. They were there for each other if they needed it. Comfort sex, bad day sex, sex for sex's sake. No where in any of that what _love_ ever involved. Butch sneered at himself for even considering something so stupid.

So they cuddled sometimes. Or just sat in silence with arms around each other or slept together without sleeping together. It didn't matter if they hugged or kissed in the shadows between classes or before one or the other had to leave for some reason. It shouldn't matter if they had nicknames for each other or that Franny called him cute or that the hustler sometimes (more often than not, actually) showed up in his dreams. Hell, it didn't - _shouldn't_ even matter that they confided in each other their deepest secrets – Butch his scars and Francis his bullshit family. It wasn't even important that Fran knew just how Butch liked it and that Butch actually _liked_ bending over for the hustler. It wasn't ever gentle – it was rough, needy, angry. It left him with marks and blood and some measure of pain every time. It didn't fucking matter!

But it did. It totally _did_ matter, and it made Butch sick to think how hard he'd fallen without ever feeling any pain. He'd broken and became the hustler's plaything without thinking and then had the fucking gall to fall in love with the asshole. What hurt him worse was that he was _never _supposed to feel this way, but he did, and now he was paying for it. Now it hurt. It hurt _bad_ - so bad he physically felt pain, enough to grip the fabric above his heart and wish he could tear it and the damned organ away and not have to worry about it anymore.

Butch had somehow gotten to school without murdering himself, and though he looked like he'd dragged himself out of a grave one brave soul sauntered up to him and offered a slip of paper. Butch eyed his fellow student, seeing an unfamiliar face (he must have been unfamiliar- no one who hailed from Third Street would dare bother Butch when he looked this bad). The kid shook the paper and implored him to take it, saying something about a huge party and lack of parents and social networking. The storyteller exhaled smoke in his face, but took the invite and nodded, bypassing the entrance to go smoke in the nearby alleyways until class.

He'd look at the invite sometime later. He'd think sometime later. Right now, he just needed to sit and _deal_ for a little while. Hopefully, Francis wouldn't notice.

O/O

"The hell you pedaling?" Skeens spat, scowling at the strange brat trying to force a white card into his hand. Sleeps stumbled into his back, snorting and shaking his head, then resting it against his spine.  
"It's… just a party man." The kid muttered, looking a lot more frightened now that Skeens was glaring and readying his spray can "Chill. It's tonight. Free food."

The Graffiti kid, calmed by the mention of 'food' (and more importantly 'free'), snatched the card from the strange student (who promptly scooted far away from the angry male) and stuffed it in his pocket. He reached behind him and poked Sleeps in the ear until he snored and woke himself, standing a little straighter.

"Oh… hey Skeens. What's up?"  
"C'mon. We're gonna find Mundy."  
"When did we get to school…?"  
"Can you walk up the stairwell or are you gonna fall asleep again?"  
"… hm?"

Skeens cursed quietly but smiled, hustling the sleepy blond inside and to the stairwell, then hoisted him up in a fireman's carry and stole up the steps, getting to the roof just as the bell rang. He dropped Sleeps once the door shut behind him, kicking a few loose bits of shale and tar to get Mundy's attention. Mundy ignored them for a bit, spitting over the edge of the school on latecomers.

When the redheaded troublemaker finally turned to them, Sleeps had fallen asleep and Skeens was doodling on the door with chalk, though his artistry was somewhat hindered by Sleeps sleeping on his dominant arm. Mundy made a face and called them fags, kicking Sleeps to wake him up. Skeens kicked him in return and they glared at each other for a while, until Mundy turned, spat, and fished out a white slip, waving it in the air.

"So there was some little bastard-"  
"I know." Skeens interrupted, showing off his own white slip "Free food and shit. It's tonight. We gonna crash?"  
"It's not crashing if we're invited."  
"Fuck you."  
"Yeah we're going." Mundy said, spitting "And we're bringin' a little something."  
"Bringing something?" Skeens echoed.  
"Yeah bringin' something."

Mundy chuckled, mumbling to himself as he plotted. Skeens eyed him, hoping Mundy wasn't going back to his 'trying to be nicer' days. That would just _suck_. He nudged Sleeps awake and pointed Mundy out to the dozing male, who blinked blearily.

"Oh hey Mundy… when'd you get here?"  
"Shut up Lazy Kid." Mundy replied automatically, turning on his heel to face the two sitting males. "Like I said – we're gonna go a'right. But we're gonna bring something."  
"Bringin' something, huh?" Skeens said suspiciously "Ain't that kinda… you know, nice?"  
"Oh it ain't gonna be nice. Not what I got in mind."  
"Oh?" Skeens grinned, catching on, "Whatcha got in mind?"  
"I'll explain on the way. We're ditching. Wake up the lazy bastard, Skeens, and follow me. We gotta go talk to some people."  
Without further ado, Mundy adjusted his vest and sauntered out the fire door and back down the stairwell like he'd done a million times before. Skeens, who was already into the plan, punched Sleeps in the arm and then shook him awake.  
"Oh. Hey Skeens. Where's Mundy?"  
"He's gone ahead. C'mon. Get up. We got stuff to do."

O/O

Butch was doing remarkably well for someone who was dealing with a huge revelation and emotional turn around within the span of ten hours.

He didn't look too well, and most people took his looks as a clear hint to stay away (Butch would undoubtedly tell them the tale of _why_ at some point in the future, they were sure). As far as Butch was concerned, he was getting on alright – mostly thanks to cigarettes and shadows and shortcuts. There was one single instance where Butch physically ran into the hustler, but he'd just as soon put it out of his mind if he could. (It had been a truly pathetic event. Butch exited his class and walked right into the hustler's broad back. Francis turned, smiled, and began to say something, but Butch in his unshakable bravery whimpered and hightailed it across the building).

The bi-haired storyteller had smoked and sulked and felt bad about himself for a few hours, wandering aimlessly, trying desperately not to think about freaking out or Francis or kisses or sex or love – especially not love. He did his homework (every problem, essay, and reading assignment), cleaned his demolished room, and fixed himself and his family dinner (not well and nothing special, but keeping the house from burning down kept his thoughts occupied for a while) – all an attempt to distract himself. It worked, but only barely, and by the time night had fallen Butch was back to berating himself for being such a stupid fuck.

Having depleted his cigarettes, Butch emptied out his pockets in a last ditch effort to find a spare few on his person (because he sure as hell wasn't going to go to Fran to get more – oh _fuck_ no. He couldn't bear that right now). When that search came up empty, Butch tried again, dumping the contents of his pockets out on the table, hoping to find at least enough spare change to get a pack of the cheap stuff. When all was said and done he was six dollars short and holding the white invitation from this morning, focusing on the time and place. The party hadn't started yet, and if Butch had any luck or skills as an orator, he could probably pull a few cigs from other invitees.

So with nothing much else to do in his empty house (that wouldn't have him derail into thought about Francis), he left a note for his folks and grabbed his jacket (searching once more for a spare cig and coming up empty), locking the door behind him.

By the time Butch got to the party the festivities seemed to be in full swing, which didn't entirely register with him because on the walk over he managed to remember to hate himself again. He greeted the kid from earlier at the door with a short nod and tried to slink around, but the house was so packed Butch could hardly find an unoccupied space. It bothered him some, but Butch managed. He counted and tallied the people he could see, and was rather impressed at the turnout even if he could only recognize those from Third Street. He spotted TJ and his crew, Lawson and his friends, Swinger Girl, The Pale Kids, the Ashley's, Randal (if you could believe it), Guru Kid, His Highness King Bob and his attendants, The Diggers, this kid even invited-

"That's right ladies and gentlemen! Just find the right card and you can win this genuine one of a kind comic signed by-"

Oh hell. Oh shit. Oh _fuck_. He was here. Francis was _here_. Right here – right over there, hustling like he did always. Butch choked and coughed and tried not to hyperventilate. He pawed at himself, looking futilely for a cigarette he knew he didn't have while he duck and wove into the next room. It didn't matter- Francis' voice carried and rang in his ears and Butch was stuck between going white and burning up. What made matters worse was when someone suddenly laid their hand on his shoulder and he yelped, spinning around and backing himself into a corner. He full expected Francis to be standing there, looking down at him and awaiting an explanation. What he got instead was TJ, withdrawing his hand and trying to smile, his friends fanned out behind him.

"Hey Butch, lookin' a little jumpy today."  
"Er… yeah." Butch coughed and shifted his feet. "I-I'd let you guys know but, you now, long story. Would eat up too much of the uh, party."  
"Okay sure. Some other time then." TJ replied amicably.  
"We wished to wish you a grand evening, dear storyteller." Mikey stated, clasping his hands together "We feared you would be misplaced among the many rows of guests."  
"We saw you before, but you ducked away before you could see us." Gus elaborated.  
"Can you believe how many people were invited?" Vince marveled, looking around  
"I must agree – there seems to be a rather large turnout." Gretchen agreed "I can only hope this particular domicile is zoned properly for this many."  
"Yeah yeah yeah. Let's get some pizza before they run out!" Spinelli cried, effectively cutting the conversation clean.

With some measure of agreement (and after some small talk) TJ and his gang left Butch to his own devices. He watched them go, chewing his lip and picking at his fingers. Once they were out of sight (off to get food or pay respects to King Bob – he wasn't sure) Butch sighed inwardly – he had never been so happy to be ignored. It wasn't that he didn't _like_ TJ and his crazy friends. They did a lot of good work and they were pretty good inspiration (and even better scary story targets), but the fact remained that they _knew_ the barest details and if they knew the base they could guess how the story went. Hell, Mikey knew before he did, and that was dangerous. If he went spouting that love junk again…

Butch whined.

He knew – he just fucking _knew_- that if he was ever called on it this was one of those things he wouldn't be able to lie out of. He knew he's just babble and make himself look like a huge idiot. He'd be shamed into hiding forever and becoming even more of a recluse and social leper than he already was. And on top of that – Francis would hate him because he fucked up the relationship they had going when it was perfect and didn't _need_ to be fucked up. It was half his fault anyway, Butch reasoned. Stupid bastard had to be so good to him and be nice and damn good in bed-

The storyteller whined again, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms. Not matter how vehemently he could try, he couldn't pass the blame off to anyone else. It was his own stupid fault he fell in love with the stupid bastard. So fucking stupid.

Butch slipped into the kitchen and poured himself a cupful of punch. With any luck, Butch thought bitterly as he knocked it back, it'd be spiked and he'd pass the fuck out and forget the rest of this horrible night and it'd all be some terrible nightmare he could brush off.

O/O

TJ sat, holding a cup of water, but not drinking it. He couldn't force himself to gag it down, much less anything else. Something, just /something/ was gnawing at his gut. Something just didn't _feel_ right and he couldn't figure out what it was exactly. It bothered the hell out of him.

"Hey Teej." Vince interrupted, jumbling his thoughts "You feelin' okay?"  
"Yeah. There's just… I dunno. Something feels off."  
"TJ…" Vince fixed him with a glare "It's a party, man. I know you got this whole intuition thing and it's never wrong – but it's a _party_. Relax. You gotta chill out and let someone else handle the problems. "  
"I know I know but-"  
"No buts, Teej. Just chill. Go with the flow. "

TJ frowned but sipped his water, looking around. Vince was probably right. It was a party. Not everything was a conspiracy – and even if it was, it wasn't his problem. This could be like a day off for him. Yeah – not his house, not his problem. He'd just sit back and people watch and then wander around, grab some food, find the others.

But then he spotted Mundy and Skeens and Lazy Kid, chattering quietly in the corner and passing a plastic water bottle around. TJ watched unabashedly (though he was concealed by the party itself) as the three laughed, woke the blond, laughed again, and scurried into the kitchen like roaches. He saw them reappear moments later, snickering and punching each other in the side. The bottle was empty.

TJ smelt a conspiracy.

O/O

"Alright, alright. You've got me. You've won. It's yours."

HK smiled and handed the comic over, raising his hands in defeat. The victor took the comic with a happy noise and fled, proclaiming his victory. The hustler was fine with this. He had more important things on his mind; How to balance out his extra inflow of cash, what to do about his sudden dip in stock, and find Butch. The latter was most important at the moment – Butch had been acting strange for the past few days and had gone so far as to flee from him this afternoon. The hustler wondered if it was something he did or if Butch was just in one of his crazy moods. Francis toyed with the idea that Butch had some sort of bipolar disorder, but quickly banished it. While it was true Butch could switch tempers and have mood swings with the best of them, he didn't think it was at that level.

What remained to be seen was actually finding the little bastard and actually talking to him.

It struck the hustler as odd, how much he liked Butch as a person. They seemed like the type to avoid each other at all costs, like opposites. Him a successful, honest (mostly) businessman with a ridiculous work ethic, and Butch the somewhat troubling bearer of bad news who lied almost as much as he smoked. It didn't fit at first, and even after Francis was left alone to pick it apart and piece it together their relationship (if it could even be called something that _normal_) still seemed bizarre to him. But it worked – and that was more than he usually had to go on.

Somewhere in the middle of his musing, Francis brushed off someone poking him on the shoulder, telling them to go look for stuff elsewhere. He had thinking to do. But the poking started up again a few moments later and wouldn't cease until the hustler grabbed the finger and wrist attached to the offending party, bodily dragging it around so he could front it face on. HK was surprised to find Butch was the one bugging him (and yet at the same time, not shocked at all) and immediately let him go.

"Hey." He greeted. "Was just lookin' for you."  
"Aw, me?" Butch grinned "Yer too kind."  
"Yeah well." Francis grinned at him, throwing his arm companionably over his shoulder. "I'm a pretty nice guy."

Francis had expected a playful shove or a scoff or even a plume of smoke in his face. Butch, however, seemed to be in an unusual mood. Instead of looking bitter or frowning and reluctantly dealing with it, Butch tilted his head up and smiled at him, pressing into the hustler's side.

"You are." Butch said, nuzzling his side through the rough coat "So nice."  
"Uh…"  
"Hey."  
"Yeah?"  
"C'mere. Down here. I gotta tell you somethin."  
"Uh…" The hustler hesitated, looking around quickly to make sure they weren't being watched too closely, then stooped a bit, "What's up?"  
"I have a secret." Butch said, matter of factly, gripping his arm. He smiled, leaned in really close and said, "There's a space gopher comin for my pants."

The hustler started laughing, more relieved than actually amused by the statement (though it was pretty fucking funny). Butch was being an asshole, which Francis could deal with. He was being a hell of a lot more touchy than usual, but he was probably just doing it to piss him off.

It pissed him off more that Butch wouldn't let go than anything else.

The hustler, amused at the joke but with patients wearing thin, shook his arm and motioned for Butch to let go. Butch looked up and blinked at him wearily, his hold on his arm loosening. Francis smiled at him awkwardly and brushed him off the rest of the way. He muttered something about seeing him later and turned to the kitchen, hoping there was some food left.

"No wait. Wait." Butch quietly begged, grasping his hand, immediately lacing their fingers together. "Wait. Don't go."  
"Let go of me." Francis snapped "Now."  
"B-but I gotta tell you somethin'. S'important"  
"Make it quick and _let go of me_." He hissed, forcing his fingers out from between Butch's as discretely as he could.

Butch bit his bottom lip, trying not to smile but failing miserably at it. He let go of Francis' hand but held fast to his arm, rubbing his chest and then his cheek against it. He whined for the hustler to lower himself so he could tell him what was so damned important it warranted Butch molesting his arm and acting creepier than usual. To get it over with more than anything, Francis bent down and turned his head so Butch could tell him. Whatever it was, it warranted another weird half repressed smile and squirm. Then both of Butch's hands flew up, cupping over his ear. Instead of hearing anything Butch just breathed (which made Francis involuntarily shudder) and then giggled, and then he stopped cupping his hand and threw his arms around Francis' neck, kissing his cheek.

Francis pushed Butch off of him half feigning disgust with his action. It wasn't that he hadn't had it happen before – but it was just too… bizarre in public. Butch wasn't acting right. He was the secretive angsty one. Not the cuddler. If anyone could be assigned that title it would be Francis – and even then that was only if they fucked or if he had a shitty day, and in both cases they were alone when it happened, and in both cases Butch was pissy about having to deal with it. To have him hanging all over his arm and nuzzling his shoulder and acting like some lovesick teenaged girl didn't fit him at all.

"Back the fuck off already." Francis growled, violently shaking off the next attempted touch "Not interested. Just fucking stop."  
"But Franny-"

But Francis had already turned, stalking away into the crowd, rubbing the red out of his face with one hand and fisting the other deep in one of his pockets. Butch watched him go with bleary eyes. He reached up and rubbed one of them, then the other. As quietly and discretely as he could, Butch left, ignoring the warbled shapes and shaky illustrations of clowns and dolls that taunted him.

O/O

TJ had been right, as he often was when his gut told him something was up.

Gretchen confirmed his suspicions, checking all the party favors with the aid of Galileo for impurities. They found the punch was spiked and together ran very tight and panic-free damage control, informing the host and weeding out the few partygoers who had tried the pinkish liquid (there weren't that many – everyone seemed to have opted for the soda). As for the remaining liquid, TJ threw it and the bowl into the trashcan, then threw the trashcan into the street, then thought better of that and chucked everything down the nearby storm drain.

The trouble started when Spinelli caught wind of the incident and charged over to Skeens and Mundy and Lazy Kid, hitting all three of them in rapid succession and cursing at them as she was often prone to do when upset. Vince and TJ had to help wrangle her down, then Mikey took over, holding her up and trying to talk her into the path of peace. Spinelli didn't want to listen, exclaiming more often than once that 'those scumbags have teeth that need loosening LEMME GO'. The three boys threw insults at her until the host fought his way through the thick crowd and kicked the boys out.

Having to deal with a crowd now, TJ and his friends (with the aid of King Bob, who demanded order despite being relatively new to the thrown and still somewhat distrusted by those who weren't alumni to Third Street Elementary) worked their way through everyone, sending those who drank and hypochondriacs over to Gretchen for evaluation. Somewhere in the thick of it Francis approached the red-caped boy, helping him momentarily to usher partygoers outside or to the smartest kid in school for assistance. Once the crowed died down, the hustler confronted TJ directly, settling for half of his attention while he helped everyone else.

"Detwiler what the hell is going on?"  
"Mundy and his stupid friends spiked the punch. You're not feeling woozy or dizzy or hallucinating or feeling weird, are you?"  
"No. I didn't even get to drink anything. I was headed over there when this crowd started up."  
"No worries, then. But if you see Butch tell him to go talk to Gretchen."  
"…Why?" Francis asked, stiffening suddenly.  
"Dave saw him drink a cup or two. He'll be okay – mostly drunk. But Gretch found somethin' more powerful in it. Just a little, but you know." He shrugged "Better safe than sorry."  
"Yeah…. Yeah." TJ, who had missed the earlier wariness picked up on the sudden tight tone and suspiciously even keel "Sure. I gotta go talk to someone. I'll send Butch back if I see him."  
"Cool." TJ said, watching him go and belatedly calling out a 'thanks' to him as he went on about his self-proclaimed duties,

TJ realized five minutes too late that 'talking' meant less of a friendly chat and more of beating Skeens, Mundy, and Lazy Kid's within an inch of their lives.

O/O

"I can't believe how easy that was." Mundy complemented himself, flipping the empty bottle up and down. "They're all gonna get so fuckin' wasted it won't even be funny."  
"But we got caught, asshole." Skeens reminded, nursing a Spinelli bruise and a beer. "They're gonna get rid of it once Detwiler and his do-goodie pals blab."  
"Who asked you?"  
"Fuck you and your stupid plan, that's who."  
"Hey… when's the party?" The blond asked, belatedly coming into the conversation, evidently confused.  
"We're done with that, Sleepy." Skeens murmured  
"Shut the fuck up the both of you." Mundy grunted, "I gotta think of somethin' else to do."  
"You shut the fuck up."  
"No you!"  
"Not so loud…"

While the two more awake men argued to the point of screaming in each others faces, the sleepier one peered past both of them and watched as another person slipped into the alley, the large shadow looming over them. If Sleepy hadn't been so sleepy, he might have been concerned. As it was, however, he was positively _exhausted_ from all the running around they'd been doing, so he kicked Skeen's in the shin and pointed, then buried his head into his arms and drifted off.

Skeens barked at him (his question going unheard) and Mundy tried to get his attention back to their fight. Both of them were cut off, however, when Francis threw his shadow on them, approaching them without a word. He stopped a few feet off and stared, hands in pockets, until Mundy spat on the ground.

"The fuck you want?" Mundy grunted, still pissed, still up for a fight.  
"You're Mundy, right?" The hustler asked, pulling his hands from his pockets and picking at one of his fingers.  
"Who's askin'?" Skeens spat, glaring at him.  
"Are you?" He asked, looking to the redhead.  
"Yeah. What's it to ya?"

The hustler focused completely on the slightly smaller male, stepping closer. Mundy took a reflexive step back. The guy looked like a fucking slab of concrete and he was getting pretty close which was pissing him off (and maybe scaring him a little). He didn't look mad though, just blank. Mundy figured he'd be fine. He could take this guy.

"What did you put in there?" Hustler asked suddenly, after looking directly at Mundy for a few long moments.  
"What?"  
"What the _fuck_ did you put in the punch?"  
"Some booze and dust, man – Jesus chill you'll just have a hangover."  
"Wrong answer."

Francis punched the redhead right in the middle of his fucking face, knocking him back into the wall. Skeens choked on his beer and threw down the bottle, tackling the hustler in the side in a mad attempt to save his friend (and getting punched in the gut for it). Even Sleepy, who watched the brawl for a good five minutes without moving (having been woken up from the sound of Mundy's nose connecting with an angry fist), suddenly kick-started his offense. He leapt into the fray, landing half on Skeens and half on the enraged hustler. It got him bucked off and thrown, but he did get a few cheap shots in to the back of the thrashing males head.

The brawl in and of itself lasted only a few moments before TJ (with Gus, Vince, and a few of King Bob's guards as backup). However, the damage done was disproportionate to the time spent. The three victims (or so they claimed) were bloody and bruised and loosing badly, on the defensive despite outnumbering the attacker. The hustler, by contrast, was bruised and had a few small cuts but barely registered any part of it. He was far too busy trying to rail all of them into the wall, shouting and demanding answers and looking for revenge (though, looking back on it he wouldn't be able to say _why_, exactly). At one point it seemed to calm down while Gus was pulling Skeens off his back, but then the bloody black-haired youth had shouted "Yeah you better run – go comfort your pansy ass boyfriend, ya faggot!", and the hustler, who had been placated by two of King Bob's agents, threw them off and charged again, somehow with more rage than he had before.

(In the fray, Francis had continually shouted about murder and breaking necks and knees and disfiguring them – not because they had poisoned him but ruined Butch. Hence, Skeens assumed Francis was pissy because he thought they might have hurt him – or he was just pissed because Butch was too drunk to put out tonight)

TJ risked his own skin and leapt on Francis (taking an elbow to the side for his trouble), holding fast until he began to pant, overexerted and shaking. While the hustler staggered under the weight of himself TJ forced his back to the wall and held his shoulders (gambling on Francis being to tired to hit him – and if he were to hit him it wouldn't be nearly as bad off as Mundy and his stupid friends). His bet paid off and Francis sort of went limp, but remained tense and furious in TJ's grasp, like an animal all to ready and willing to break free.

"Francis!" TJ cried above the shouting blood boys and the grunting guards running interference, forcing the hustler to look at him. "Francis _listen_ to me. They deserve this. I know they do. I'd hold them down for you if I could but – Listen! Listen to me Francis. Butch. Where's Butch?"  
"Butch?" Francis blinked and looked at his captor, slowly registering the word though he had been shouting it all of two minutes ago.  
"Yeah. Go find him. Find Butch, okay?"  
"Where is he?"  
"I don't know. You gotta go find him. He's probably nearby. Can you do that? Can you go get him for me."  
"I need to finish them- they ruined it. They're dead"  
"Great! Yeah, I know. I'll hold them down for you personally. But Butch come first. Find him. Find him and then you can beat 'em up all you like."  
"Okay."  
"You're gonna find Butch and then everything will be okay. Okay?"  
"Okay."  
"Okay. Good. Go. We'll take care of them. Go."

Francis swallowed, stepping back from TJ. He wanted to run over, knock the fuck out of them, make them scream for mercy. But he stopped himself, then forced himself to start again, wrenching away from Detwiler and off of the property.

He needed to find Butch.

O/O

Francis found Butch just before he made himself into a colorful hood ornament.

Yanking the other male back into a nearby alley, Francis propped him up against the wall and watched while Butch slid down and crumpled onto the asphalt looking boneless, like a rag doll someone tossed on the ground. For a while neither said anything. Butch looking lifeless aside from the active holding of his stomach and occasional mumbling into the street while Francis paced, uncomfortable and still more than willing to punch something until it bled. He refrained, though, upon seeing Butch in such a state. He couldn't help but worry for his friend.

Kneeling down beside him, Francis reached out and rubbed the tops of his shoulders, ushering him back into a sitting position. Butch rolled up, still looking somewhat ill. Francis gave him a sympathetic smile, letting it drop when Butch turned his face away. He felt a pang in his gut and knew it was guilt. He'd overacted at the party, blowing the whole touchy thing out of proportion. He didn't know Butch was messed up. He thought he was just being a dick and all of it just confused the hell out of him so he reacted like a bigger dick. Point was he screwed up and he was sorry. So he told Butch so.

"About before-" Francis began "I… I'm sorry I yelled at you. Snapped. Whatever. Point is I freaked and you didn't deserve that."  
"S'myfault." Butch mumbled "Was bein' weird."  
"'Cause your drink was spiked."  
"Mm."  
"My point exactly then."  
"S'okay."

They lapsed into a comfortable silence for all of three seconds. Then Butch groaned, holding his stomach, bending forward enough to pres his forehead to the ground between his legs. Francis, though impressed but Butch's flexibility, pushed the thought aside and coaxed him up again. Butch had shut his eyes and seemed to want to keep them that way. That didn't stop Francis from stroking under his eyes and holding his head up.

"So what are you seeing, exactly?" He asked softly when Butch opened his eyes.  
"Nothing now. Saw weird shit. Like everything was wavy. Melting."  
"Mm."  
"Also dolls. And clowns. Zeebo?"  
"Did he have his nose?"  
"Melted."  
"Still feeling bad?"  
"My guts do."  
"Gonna puke?"  
"Don't think so."  
"Good 'cause that's fuckin' gross."

Butch smiled, however small, at the half joke. But he went quiet and somewhat still, lifting his eyes and looking at the hustler for such an uncomfortably long time that the taller male started chewing his lip some and shifting awkwardly. Butch opened his mouth a few times to say something, but nothing came out for a little while.

"I… I think I might…"  
"Might what?"  
"I think I might have… fallen…in-in-"  
"Fall into something?" Francis tried, piecing together what he could of Butch's muddled speech. "When? Does it hurt?"  
"More than I can explain."

Francis glanced up at Butch, the full sentence not what he expected from the inebriated male. Butch looked rather ill and turned a sickly shade of pink with Francis' eyes on him, and subsequently Francis found it hard to look directly at him (which made Butch feel about a million times worse). Butch shifted in the hustler's loose hold, struggling to an upright position. He cleared his throat and shifted in his spot, looking near but not quite at the hustler.

"M'gonna… gonna head home." Butch half mumbled, wiping the side of his mouth on his sleeve.  
"Are you sure?"  
"Yeah. Yeah. Help?" Butch asked, extending one hand while holding the wall with the other.

Francis moved to his feet and clasped his hand around Butch's wrist, pulling him up to his feet like he was nothing at all. He popped up so easily that Butch lost his balance immediacy, teetering on his feet like a stack of blocks, and then collapsed into Francis. The taller boy didn't move and inch, moving his arms to hold Butch's arms and help him stand up straight, ignoring the slight tremble, writing it off as passing nausea. Butch, for his part, looked directly downward at their legs, the top of his head pressed to Fran's chest and his hands on the broad holders, holding himself in place. He took a moment, carefully composing himself (because he sort of felt like he was going to puke). For some reason he moved his hands, sliding them around the hustler's neck loosely, moving so his face was pressed just under his chin against the warm throat, looking at the nearby wall with the same intent stare he'd focused on their shoes moments ago. He just needed a minute. Just to take a few deep breaths and stop the world from spinning and then he'd go home and sleep it off and try to forget.

But then he felt Francis' arms creep around him, drawing warm paths over his spine that burned through every wall he fought to put up tonight, holding him gently but with the same strength as iron fucking bars. It was so warm and solid and so _there_ and Francis was saying something but he didn't know what and he was so Butch choked on this lump in his throat and felt like he was cracking into a million peaces so he held on tighter and shut his eyes and tried breathing but every inhale smelt like rough trench coat fabric and soap and cologne and _fucking Francis_ that he just started to hyperventilate instead and before he could try and push off and say he was alright he realized he was crying and croaking 'I'm sorry' over and over and he couldn't stop because he loved the stupid bastard and he wasn't supposed to and would never be good enough for him so he cried harder and clung to him and hoped to whoever would listen that Francis would understand.

O/O

Francis had stolen Butch's phone and texted his mother, telling her that he was fine and he wasn't feeling so good and he was crashing at Fran's (God it felt weird using a nickname he hated to refer to himself) place. Though the hour was late and the hustler was thinking about actually calling the woman and coming clean, the response came trembling through the phone before he could even take a step toward the phone. It was warm and kind as Francis could have expected and twice as simple. All it said was 'alright muffin xoxo' -and somehow Francis was absurdly affected by it.

(Not jealous. He wouldn't say jealous, because that was crazy. He couldn't be jealous over his best friend with benefit's mother. That would be too bizarre, even in the context of this insane night.)

He showered and dressed for bed, going about his nightly routine like usual up until the point where Francis poked his head into the guest room beside his room where he let Butch rest. He'd provided a bucket and a glass of water and a change of clothes if he woke up. The smaller male seemed content to lie there on his stomach, clutching the pillow underneath him. Francis felt bad, really, but Butch had frightened him somewhat. After he burst into tears in the alley and clung to him, all Francis could make out by way of explanation was a muffled, repeated ''I'm sorry". He wasn't sure why or what Butch was sorry about, but it had to be something big.

Still though, Francis approached Butch. He looked more peaceful, at ease, more like how he was _supposed_ to look, and that comforted Francis some. It meant he was on the way to getting better. The hustler stretched some and knelt beside the bed, reaching out to stroke Butch's hair. He didn't stir, but that was alright. The last thing Francis wanted to hear was another excuse or apology. It would have been nice to have him awake for a while though, to make the house a bit less empty.

He kissed Butch goodnight, which wasn't what he normally did, but he did anyway. It wasn't like he loved the guy or anything (not that that _wouldn't_ fit into the fucked up motif of the night), but Butch probably needed it, even if he wasn't conscious for it.

O/O

Butch woke up in the most unfamiliar, nonthreatening place he'd ever seen.

For a moment he thought he wound up at a ritzy hotel, but the lack of anything personable or lively led Butch to believe he was actually in Francis' house. Deciding that was probably the case, Butch yawned and sat up (mindful of his headache), and went into the attached bathroom, gulping down a few cupfuls of water and washing out his mouth. He gave up his search for aspirin after nearly demolishing the medicine cabinet, instead planning on going back to the nice bed and napping for the next year or so.

Francis was standing there when he wandered back into the room, leaning against the threshold with his arms crossed over his chest. For some reason, Butch felt somewhat uneasy, but he grinned and tried to look innocent. He glanced over to the unmade bed, then back to Francis (who had pushed off the door frame and crossed the threshold), his smile turning more sheepish than anything.

"So…" Butch began "Did we do it or just crash?"  
"We're both fully clothed and you're not limping."  
"This is true."  
"You don't remember anything about last night?"  
"Nope. I remember some feelings and stuff. Anxiousness and wooziness. But other than that I really don't remember the party."  
"What about earlier in the day?"  
"Nothing much there either. But that's not unusual."  
"Mm."

Butch pushed himself off the door frame (he'd leaned on it in an attempt to looks nonchalant, but ended up looking kind of sick and tired instead). He sighed and rolled his shoulders, plopping down on the bed and rubbing his eye. Francis took a seat next to him, smoothing out his shirt. They sat in silence for a little while, up until Butch leaned over and rested his head on Fran's shoulder, expecting a small noise in acknowledgement. Butch was instead answered with a small hiss. Butch lifted his head and looked where he had pressed into, then up at the hustler's face. A small smattering of bruises and a scrape ran along under his jaw.

"Who beat you up?" Butch asked, lifting the short-sleeve of his shirt to peek at the bruise he'd rested his head on.  
"This is nothing. You should see the other guys."  
"Guys? As in plural?"  
"Yeah."  
"Who?"  
"Skeens and Mundy and that sleepy guy."  
"Why'd they gang up on you?"  
"You got it backwards." He muttered, deciding at that moment to tell him the truth. "I went after them. They spiked the punch and you had a couple of cupfuls and it fucked you up, so I got kinda mad and went after them."  
"Ah. Explains the headache and why everything looked like it was melting in my dream."  
"You said stuff was melting last night too." The hustler sighed and let his head drop to Butch's shoulder "M'sorry."  
"For what?"  
"I yelled at you. When you were messed up. I thought you were fucking with me."  
"Eh. I don't remember, but I forgive you."

Francis smiled then, sliding his arm around butch middle. Butch squirmed and poked him in the side, but rested regardless. He was feeling better now, all things considered. His headache was subsiding, he was warm and comfortable (if not a bit hungry) and could have probably fallen asleep like this. Francis was just glad that Butch hadn't freaked out and started apologizing.

"Your mom wants you home sometime before the end of the week." The hustler mumbled into his neck.  
"How do you know?"  
"Oh. I stole your phone. Texted your mom and told her you were gonna crash here."  
"Oh. Can I have it back?"  
"I'm not done putting dirty pictures on it yet."

Butch started laughing and whapped him with the nearby pillow. His headache was completely forgotten by this point, far too focused on beating Francis to hell with his pillows (and trying to defend himself when Fran got the upper hand). Before too long they were rolling around on the bed, giggling and trying to strike at weak spots. Francis got on top and pinned Butch down, getting boxed in the ears with two throw pillows for his triumph. Francis could only see one retaliation fitting for this disrespect – namely kissing Butch, and he did just that.

Midway through the peck Butch remembered what happened all of thirty hours ago and felt it seize him up and freeze his insides. His stomach dropped and he half gasped, curling his fingers in Francis' shirt and trying desperately not to shake. He had lied before. He remembered, mostly, but none of it made sense. It was like a fucked up dream, but the fucking _feeling_ burned through all that mess. What had happened that early morning was something he couldn't ever forget, no matter how much he willed it – the mere thought of it scared him to death, and the more the thoughts whipped though his head the more his fears were compounded. So Butch (with some measure of difficulty) attempted to detach himself from Francis and make his escape.

"M-m. Ngh. I-I've gotta go. Gotta go."  
"But you just got here."

Butch made the mistake of looking up at him, frozen in place. For a minute he thought that maybe, just maybe…. Maybe he could say it. Just say that he was in love with him. Tell him the truth for once, get it out in the open. Francis wouldn't hate him. He'd beat the hell out of three guys and tracked him down and made sure he was okay. Surely Fran would understand that maybe he developed some sort of feeling for him. All he had to do was take a deep breath, look him right in the eye and tell him.

But then Francis rolled off of him, smiling like nothing out of the ordinary, and instantly Butch _knew_ couldn't ruin that. He loved that smile. More than that, he loved the ease that came with it. He couldn't fuck this up. So it might tear away at his insides – he'd dealt with that before without too many serious consequences. He'd just keep his stupid notions of anything more to himself and just live with it. It probably wasn't love anyway, if Butch really sat down and took the time to think about it. It was probably just a crush or a byproduct of sleeping with the guy. Butch figured he could probably live with that, and if he couldn't then he'd figure out some way down the road. But he doubted he'd need to. It wasn't love (probably)(hopefully)(maybe).

So Butch smiled sheepishly back and sat up, scooting off the bed to fetch his coat and collect whatever had spilled out of his pockets. He glanced back at the hustler, who was sprawled out on his back and watching him mildly. Butch felt like he was a coward for running away and a fool for not running away fast enough. Before he could get out of the room completely, however, Francis somehow ghosted up behind him and gave him a friendly hug, kissing him one last time (as he was prone to do). Butch, flashed a grin and all but tore out of his grasp, shoving both hands in his pockets (lest he do something stupid and girly like touch his lips or swoon), and booking it down the stairs.

Francis, leaning against the doorframe, simply chuckled and let Butch do as Butch pleased, none the wiser.

* * *

**So yeah, kinda progress but then again NONE AT ALL GOOD JOB GUYS.**  
**They'll get it eventually. It's only going to take them FOR FUCKING EVER don't you worry. HOPE Y'ALL IS PATIENT. **

**Additionally, if you can spot the alternate OTP(possible pairing) in the chapter you get a cookie. A virtual one, of course. I can't bake to save my damned life.  
**  
**Thanks for reading!**


	25. Alone Time

**I have nothing to say about this. It's mostly smut filler BUT I KNOW HOW MUCH YOU ALL LOVE THAT. **  
**It also disrupts the timeline/storyline some - at least from my perspective. You'll see why in chapter or so. But I hate making you guys wait and it does fit HK wise (not so much for Butch). Again, you'll see what I mean.**

**HURF DERF**

**Enjoy!**  


* * *

Damn that bastard! Damn him!

Francis shouldered his way into his home, his coat tightly belted, and locked the door behind him. He whipped his head around and, thankfully, found his home to be empty. It wasn't new, but he wasn't sure he ever felt so glad to find it deserted. He stalked up the stairs to his room and shut and locked the door there, too. He groaned.

That _bastard_! That jerk! How could he do this to him? In the middle of freaking school no less! It was bad enough he did it when they were in some semblance of privacy, but in the middle of _school_? He snarled, rubbing his face, the scenario playing over in his head regardless of his permission.

O/O

"Hey Franny!"  
"I asked you not to call me that."

Butch smirked at him, slinging an unwelcome arm across his shoulder. He was in an oddly good mood. Francis briefly wondered why. Then he decided getting that arm off of him was more important. Butch didn't seem to care, puffing away on a half-gone cigarette.

"You got my merch, Fran?" He was pointedly ignored. Butch stared, then sighed "Oh-kay… Do you have my order _Hustler_?"  
"Why yes I do."  
"Great!"

He pulled a clipboard from the inside of his coat and looked down the list. He tapped his pen and checked off the box.

"You ordered… Malbros, three Bic lighters and a bag of Starburst?"  
"Mmyep."  
"You're smoking Malbros now?"  
"I figured I'd give 'em a try."  
"...What's the Starburst for?"  
"What's with the third degree?" Butch snapped, "You pick at all your customers like that?"  
"No. Just you." He answered coolly, retrieving the items in question "What's it for?"

Butch sighed and retrieved a piece of printer paper from his coat. He unfolded it and presented it to the hustler.

"What's this?" He asked.  
"Directions to make a paper star." He shrugged at the Hustler's odd look "I got bored of messing with cherry stems."

Francis gave him another odd look and turned his gaze down to the paper. They were, as he said, directions to make a paper star out of candy wrappers…using only ones tongue and teeth.

At first glance, it didn't bother him. But then his mind clicked and turned and put two and two together. Then his face flared up before he could stop it. He had put two and two together. Cherry stems, tongues, lips, teeth. He shivered. That damned _mouth_!

"Hey Fran… you feelin okay?" Butch pressed a hand to the others forehead and one to his own. "You feel kinda warm…"  
"I'vegototgoI'lltalktoyoulater" He cried suddenly, shoving the things he ordered into his hands and making a mad dash for the exit.

Butch had called after him, something about avoiding him, but he didn't stick around to hear it. He ran off. He shoved half his stock to Fingers, babbled some quick excuse to keep him from asking questions and dashed away without another word.

O/O

He slammed his fist into the wall. Why wouldn't it go away? He had spent fifteen minutes in the bathroom at school, trying to get it to go down. He had no choice but to flee the school and peel off. The sudden drive home didn't help, nor did the fear of being caught. Hell, _nothing_ was gonna get this shit to go down!

Hustler shrugged off his coat and ran a hand through his hair, shuffling uncomfortably to his bed. He flopped down on his side, nursing the hand he rammed into the wall. Maybe it would just take a little time to go down. He had few hours before he had to open the garage…

But could he stand having this ache for that long?

Francis growled at himself, burring his face in his pillow. Stupid Butch and his… his mouth… making him think things like this in public. Making him hard like this…

He snorted, looking down at his 'problem.' He hadn't done this in fucking _months_. There wasn't any need to. Not with payment options open to him and being able to see Butch and… blow off a little steam. He hadn't had much of a reason to take care of himself. He was always busy or he had someone else take care of it. There was the rare occasion at the beginning of puberty, but that was a while ago. It wasn't that he'd forgotten- just that it seemed… below him.

But, this little problem wasn't going away on it's own. He didn't have much of a choice…

With some small sigh and a little wince on his part, he undid the belt and the zipper on his jeans. He gulped, refusing to look down. Gently pressing his hand to the ache, he remembered why he hated doing this on his own- it was humiliating.

But it felt good.

He shut his eyes and pressed down a little more, feeling it throb between his legs. He groaned, feeling a little more bold than embarrassed. He could just… jerk off until the problem went away. But he had three hours. Why not have a little fun while he was at it? He rolled over on his back, arching up a little into his hand. Again the hustler groaned, allowing his mind to wander for a change.

Immediately he imagined Butch's mouth wrapped around his cock.

Francis yanked his hand back like he'd been fucking burned. He even hissed, his eyes flying open and sitting up straight. What the /hell/ was that? Where the hell did that come from? He coughed and looked anywhere but down at himself. That wasn't what he was expecting. Okay, so he'd been spending a little more time with Butch than girls. That didn't _mean_ anything. He was just more readily available. And it wasn't like it was a random thought; Butch had sucked him off before, and he was good at it… but still!

Hustler snorted and lay back down, shutting his eyes again. It wasn't that weird. It was all _his_ fault, really. Going on about that mouth and what he could do with it. Him and his cherry stem bows and paper star wrappers… jerk. All his fault. All of it. He was the reason he was… less than presentable.

He shook his head, nestling into the pillow. There was no reason to be ashamed – it wasn't like there were people watching or he had any real chance of being caught. He was just being paranoid. With another sigh, he reached back to grip the pillow and pressed his hand back where it was before. Yep. Still hard. It throbbed appreciatively at the contact and Francis hissed a little, turning his head to the side.

Butch took over his mind again the second he forced himself to relax.

'Shit, this was so wrong' the hustler thought, pressing down a little more. He could feel him and _only_ him, splaying his hand over his clothed chest and forcing him up for a kiss. He was bound to be good at them by now. He'd seen many a cherry stem meet it's fate in that hot, wet mouth. He knew personally what it could do, and to think he taught him a few things. He felt those warm lips on his own, kissing him, tasting him, and he moaned for more. He was almost certain he was louder than he had meant to be, but at the same time he couldn't bring himself to care.

He felt Butch hands (though he knew for certain they were his own), trail down his chest and over his hips, drawing a lazy path down his body. He cursed softly, feeling his fingers wrap around the clothed bulge, almost teasing him. The hustler arched; he could almost _hear_ that bastard chuckling in his ear, breathing on it just to be a fucking cocktease. He shivered in spite of himself and arched up into the hand that was clumsily stroking him.

In his mind, he could see Butch smirking and eyeing him with his dark eyes. He was murmuring his name, stroking the clothed flesh. Another nip to his ear and the image of Butch snickered, sliding down his body. He felt the hands trail down him again and press against his arousal, pulling a sharp gasp from him. Francis' hand mirrored Butch's slow, careful motions, trying with all he had to prolong this little vision, but he was close as it was. He decided (like there was much of a choice) to just give in.

He didn't regret it for a second.

As if on cue, his mind kicked into overdrive and Butch grinned up at him with that glint in his eye that Hustler knew meant trouble. He watched helplessly as Butch freed him from his clothing, sticking out that talented tongue to lap at him. Francis threw his head back, feeling his hand speed up that much more, feeling Butch lap at the head with that evil little pink tongue. He could see that smirk and those dark eyes looking up at him, daring him to make a sound louder than a moan.

Francis snorted, biting his lip. He'd deny that smug bastard the satisfaction, even if he wasn't really there. He could have sworn he felt that hot, wet mouth close around him, felt that skilled tongue press against the underside while he took more and more into his mouth. His hand sped up. Screw taking his time, he needed to come! Dream Butch had other ideas, looking up at him with those dark eyes and slowly, slowly pulling back, half smiling around his cock and drawing his free hand up and pressing his tongue right under the tip-

He threw his head back and came with a cry, tightening up all over. He entertained the notion of the storyteller swallowing it down- but that was dashed when he felt it gush over his hand. He winced. Some exhausted part of his mind reminded him why else he hated this. Francis caught his breath, pulling his hand away, making some small noise at the cooling liquid coating the majority of his hand. He should have planned ahead…

He allowed himself a few moments to relax before he attempted to sit up. A few tissues, a zip, and some hand-washing later he was good as new again. A glance at the clock confirmed he had only managed to kill about a half an hour. He had two and a half hours until he needed to open. He only had a half an hour before people would actually be out and about to see him. He'd probably get a call from Fingers in about fifteen minutes.

The hustler sat back down at his bed and rubbed his face with the hand he hadn't used. One thought kept picking at him, threatening to consume his entire mindset. Why had he though of Butch? It was only Butch, he realized. There hadn't even been an attempt at imagining a girl. It was just the other boy… and that bothered him quite a bit.

He kept running the situation over and over in his mind, his chin in his hand. He couldn't piece it together… but the clock ticked away and suddenly time was weighing down on him rather than granting him time to think.

Francis stood, brushing off his coat and fixing his hair. He decided the image of Butch and only Butch was merely the result of recent events. Who had been dominating his time? Who had been with him last? Who else but Butch? It was just because he had been spending so much time with the storyteller, intimate or otherwise. That was all. A simple explanation. It wasn't even really worth thinking about anymore, really.

With that though securely out of his head, he headed to the garage. He grabbed up his phone and, as if on cue, it started to ring. He sighed and answered it.

Just business as usual. Nothing out of the ordinary here.  


* * *

**BULLSHIT FRANCIS. THIS IS VERY OUT OF THE ORDINARY.**  
**Don't worry. He'll figure it out soon. Maybe. Hopefully. **  
**Dammit.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	26. Don't Hate the Player

**Hi everyone! Quick update, yes - but for special reasons. **  
**One, I am done with midterms! **  
**Two, I wanted something up to celebrate the day I claim as Butch's birthday. Because why the fuck not.  
(I posted a oneshot before if anyone is interested - it has no bearing on the plot but hey, Birthday.) **

**HERE BUTCH. I GOT YOU SOME ANGST AND INTROSPECTION I HOPE YOU LIKE IT.**  
**(He doesn't like it. But you do! Oh boy!)**

**Enjoy**

* * *

Butch wasn't good with thinking.

No, that wasn't right. He was very good with thinking. He could find hidden messages and symbolism in anything even if the creator had no intention of it being there in the first place. He could pick out a persons worst fear after talking to them for ten minutes. Their insecurities took six. He could analyze and respond. He could think up entirely new shit and could tell stories better than any public speaker he knew could. He was good at thinking.

Just terrible at figuring himself out.

Butch shorted, rolling over onto his stomach and hugging his pillow. He knew adolescence and even early adulthood was all about 'finding yourself' and all that good shit, but why the fuck did it have to be so complicated? Why did _he_ have to be so complicated? Why was it that everything he did pretty much destroyed him from the inside out and made him some twisted, obscene mess?

And that was just himself on the inside.

Francis was a whole other story.

Groaning, he buried his head into the fabric and breathed in, trying to suffocate himself and the idea from his head. He wasn't…it wasn't that he was _against_ the idea. It's just that it was still a lot to handle. Way too much. It made him hurt in more places than one. His head and heart pounded a lot more significantly every time he thought about it, and even though he tried to write it off as a strictly biological stress-based response that increased his heart rate and restricted his blood vessels to the point of physical pain, the poet inside him wouldn't shut the hell up. It kept telling him he was lovesick, and the only cure would be to proclaim it to the heavens… or at least to the object of his affections.

Butch rolled on his back, clutching his pillow and staring at the ceiling. He'd gotten better with his whole revelation thing. He knew he loved Francis. He loved him so damn much it hurt sometimes. It crept up on him at the worst times, though. The thought, the whole concept would drill a hole in his head and flood his consciousness. He'd be unable to think about anything else, unable to concentrate, which he figured was the norm when someone was so fucking in love for the first goddamn time. It was annoying as hell, but what was probably even more intimidating was the fact it scared the living _shit_ out of him.

Gripping the pillow a little harder, he buried his nose into it and shivered. Why did it have to be now? Why all of a sudden? Why couldn't this have come later, when it was more convenient? All the horror stories he'd ever read or seen or ever come up with had predictable plot lines, no matter how new age or original. He could see what was coming. He could anticipate it.

But not this time.

This was unknown territory for him. He had no goddamn idea what he was doing. He was flying blind and, theoretically (or from a literary standpoint) love was always blind. Did that make him ahead or behind the curve? Butch figured it put him somewhere in the middle, and with his lack of experience he needed all the extra help he could get. True, he had had that one girl (what was her name?), and he romanced her good enough – but that was all taken from other sources. Chick flicks. Old time romance movies. He made her swoon with shit she'd never heard before, not with something he'd though up himself. He had essentially cheated.

Francis had real experience.

The hustler knew more than he could ever hope to know, and all firsthand. Butch wasn't stupid. He knew Franny's reputation. Before he was… before they kind of sort of hooked up, Hustler had generously offered three modes of payment. Cash, grass or… that third one. Butch wasn't surprised, really. He was _the_ hustler. He knew he garnered the nickname back in grade school, and it didn't mean then what it meant now; it had just stuck. Then again, allowing sexual favors in return for a commodity _was_ hustling in its most adult form. And it wasn't like hooking up with him occasionally meant he dropped the sex as a form of payment.

On the other hand, Fran made it clear over and over that he preferred cash to the other two forms of payment. But he still accepted body or weed… though he would have more readily taken the sex to weed. So his gamut read from cash to ass to grass. He liked cash best, but he loved tail, too. He knew too much to _not_ know it. And he'd knew… people said things… defending and extending his prowess. Those could have all been lies, though. But what if they weren't? What if the rumors were true? What if he really had done all of those things with all of those people while Butch had had maybe one girlfriend?

Fuck, he was dating a total player.

Hustler was confusing as hell, Butch decided, cradling the stuffed rectangle to his chest. He rolled on his side and shut his eyes, trying to ease his mind. He needed to stop thinking. He needed sleep. It was still early, but the sooner he tried, the sooner it might work. Stopping all though wouldn't be too hard. He just had to keep his mind on other things. Softer, less complicated things. Like sheep. Counting sheep would work nicely. He could just count the fuzzy little things as they hopped over a picket fence and then he'd bore himself into a coma.

He reached for his phone 748 sheep later.

"Speak to me."  
"Sex. I need sex now."  
"Hello Butch. I'm dong fine, thank you for asking."  
"I'll be there in ten minutes."  
"Well have fun with that. My shift doesn't end for an hour."  
"Fuck…"  
"What's the matter? You never called to proposed me before."  
"Yes I have."  
"Well, yes, but not lately. What's-?"  
"Look, I… I just need to blow off steam and I need to do it soon. I need to stop thinking."  
"… I'll see you in ten, then."

O/O

Butch came with a hoarse cry, spilling over Francis' hand and collapsing lamely into the mess he made. The hustler fell on top of him, knocked off balance, panting into his shoulder. Butch shivered, groaning under him in some wordless plea between wanting him to move off and wanting to feel the weight of him. Eventually Francis moved half off, kissing the various marks on his neck, letting him glide through the afterglow. Francis always recovered quickly… too quickly. Butch felt the pang of thought and couldn't stop the dam before it broke – and suddenly the blissful thoughtless haze of sex was gone.

"Kiss me." Butch blurted. Francis chuckled and complied before Butch could recant his request. Francis kissed him right on the mouth, deeply and just enough to get Butch to lose his breath. Hustler smiled, nipping his lip and drawing a soft moan from him. He lay back down beside him, composed enough to get up and walk right out the door but Butch would have killed him before he let him go like that. Especially with the thought nagging at him…

"No… " Butch mumbled, looking down at Francis' collarbone, then back up at his face "I… Kiss me like uhm..."

Butch attempted to sign the idea in his head with his hands, but failed spectacularly. Something compelled him to lean forward and demonstrate, so he did, and failed terrifically at that too, just barely catching the side of his mouth in a quick kiss. Francis eyed him for a moment, confused. The look made the storyteller blush, and out of nowhere the hustler seemed to get the idea. He smiled a little, shifting in the sheets, sliding his hands up into the shaggy hair. He tipped Butch face back, and Butch felt his eyes slide shut. The gentle pressure he hated so much, what vexed him more than anything, it pressed to his mouth and there it barely stayed.

Butch very nearly gasped. Why- why did it make him so shaky? So out of it? It's like he didn't even realize what he was doing to him. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair he teased him like this. Made him feel loved with this gentle shit. Butch tried to fight it, tried to put up the front that he fucking hated it, but every time it was useless. It didn't take too much this time. He just gave in, letting himself feel loved and adored for a little while. Like he wasn't worthless or damaged. Like Fran loved him back. For a little while, Butch gave into this… this love, if that's what it was.

An all too soon it was over. Francis broke the kiss and the illusion was broken with it. Somehow, for some reason, there was a hollow feeling in his chest. He wanted more. He wanted it to happen again and again until he fell into a peaceful sleep and had the most wonderful dreams. Butch shook the thought from his head, cursing himself for being so damned pathetic. The hand that threaded through his hair nearly made him whimper and he found himself looking up into the trap of ice-grey eyes.

"Better now?" Francis purred, arching a brow and stroking his cheek.

Butch felt his face heat up and he buried it into the crook of the hustler's neck and shoulder. He heard the soft rumble oh his laugh and burned redder, trying to ignore the flutter in his chest when he felt the warm, heavy arms wrap around the uncovered part of his body. Butch waited, his eyes half closed, trying to keep his thoughts inside his head and hoping it didn't burst. How many people had been in this position? How many people had he held and kissed and talked to like this? The thought of anyone more than him… it made him sick inside.

By the time Fran's breath evened out, Butch had made his decision.  
He was going to find out; no matter how many people he had to trace the rumors through.

O/O

Butch didn't want to do this.

Standing in the mouth of a filthy alley, Butch reflected on his findings. He'd been halfway around the school and back again. Everyone knew something about the hustler, but no one knew anything suiting his purpose. They knew his payment options, but the ones he'd talked to had only paid in cash or credit. He'd finally managed to get in touch with Fingers (after sifting through the odd looks from alternate elementary school graduates). He'd given him a little bit more to go on, but no details. He mostly smirked d a lot and waved his hand, muttering something to the tune of "I can't tell yah about dat, man." It wasn't until he found himself in the worst part of town that he found someone who might actually have an answer.

Again, he really, really didn't want to do this.

He had spotted her part from her usual gal pals and slip into this alley. It was disgusting, smelled like something from the big city, not from the nice, quiet little suburb. He'd… there was talk about her and Fran. She was one of his best customers, apparently. No one liked to talk about it. No one talked about the rich kids- but they sure as hell liked to whisper.

He watched her now from the mouth of the alley, digging into her tiny purse, pulling out an orangey capsule. He retrieved a tiny pill from it, put the capsule back, and leaned against the wall. She looked directly at him, something that infuriated and scared the hell out of him all at the same time. She smiled.

"Hey there story boy." The less-than-wholesome Ashley cooed, wiggling her fingers at him. "I've been hearing talk about you… looking for answers about the hustlers past." She giggled girlishly and crooked a finger at him drawing him in.  
"You've heard right." Butch murmured cautiously, stepping closer  
"What're you lookin for, sugar? Some blackmail? Whatsamatter, can't make a payment?"  
"That's… one way of looking at it." Butch stepped over a pile of discarded ick, and eyed her, lighting up a smoke "Why? Do you know something?"

She smirked and slipped the tiny pill in her mouth, sighing softly and letting her head roll back for a few moments. Before he could step forward and see if she'd passed out or not, she giggled, tossing her curly hair over her shoulder and sliding over the top of the can to get to him. Her legs spread, her skirt rose, and for the barest moment Butch found himself watching it rise. He shook the thought from his head and focused just past the left side of her face. He had much better eye candy under that grey trench coat. He didn't need to resort to ogling trash on trash.

"You wanna now about the hustler?" She purred. "Oooh, I know about him. I know him really well…"

Butch felt himself frowning. She was putting too much emphasis on 'knowing' and 'really well' for his liking. He entertained the thought of jealousy- but he had nothing to be jealous of. She was just some tramp. Probably didn't even know anything. He puffed on his cig, speaking around it.

"Oh yeah? Like what?"  
"Like…. Biblically. You know… in bed. Oooh, I know him in bed…." He gasped and held herself, swaying to and fro on the trashcan. "Oooh… I know that man so well…"

Butch was enraptured by the swaying, drugged out whore that used to be Ashley T. He watched her lips move, listened to her words. She was talking into detail. Dates and times. How many times. Over and over. In so many ways. She praised his size, how good he tasted, how skilled he was. He counted on her fingers the times they did it, the places, what the exchange rates were.

Butch was enraged.

Somewhere in the middle of it, his bran stopped processing the words. What he'd already heard was more than enough. She was still talking, her mouth still moving, that damned smug smile still on her lips. All that shit she'd talked, everything she said. None of it was a lie. Not a bit. He didn't know who he was more furious at… but seeing that damned smile, her fucking smug little face all he could think about was taking his fist and ruining that fucking smile once and for all, even if he'd bloody his own hands.

By the time his brain had processed enough to keep him from killing anyone or just plain screaming, Ashley T was gone. Butch felt drained and leaned against the wall, chewing on the filter of his burned-out cig, trying to gather up his thoughts again. Why was it he couldn't think when he needed to? Why wouldn't brain fucking cooperate? _Why did his chest hurt so much_?

Pushing aside whatever (what he knew) was bothering him, he pushed off the wall and staggered back home. Maybe, just maybe, with the truth on his mind, it would kill this damned desperate love he felt and he could finally sleep.

O/O

Butch strolled into the hustler's garage, browsing idly while he waited. Francis saw him, gave him a small half smile, and went right back to work, paying him no mind. They often met like this, or in some case like this. Butch wondered if they thought too much alike for friends. Surely it would be endearing if they were lovers. Butch shook the though from his head and poked about the stock, waiting for the customer to leave. He half listened into their conversation, only barely paying attention. He was more concerned with the feeling of Francis watching him out the corner of his eye, just watching.

There was no reason it should turn him on as much as it was.

Finally the man left, taking with him whatever he brought. Hustler counted his money once, twice, and carefully locked it away. Butch watched him look about, make sure the door was shut and the store empty. Then, and only then, did he turn his kind smile to Butch, stepping closer to him.

"You know, I was just going to call you when that guy walked in."  
"Imagine that."  
"C'mere."

The hustler murmured something unintelligible, drawing Butch in, sliding his hands up into his hair and kissing him despite the risk of being caught. Butch kissed him back, trying not to seem so desperate. He had been thinking too much, and his default escape from thinking had quickly become mindless rough sex. It wasn't like he hated the idea… it's just he was becoming dependent. Throw in the fact that he was head over fucking heels in love and wanted nothing more than to take Francis' mind off of anyone else he'd ever fucked and replace it with himself- and then he had a problem.

This kiss wasn't helping either.

Parting with a sigh, Butch couldn't help but feel that spark in his chest again, the one he felt listening to Ashley T. He watched the salesman close up shop, felling his stomach roll around inside, trying to keep down whatever was making him feel so damn weird about this all of a sudden. Was he having second thoughts? No, it couldn't be that. It wasn't the sex he was worried over. It was something gnawing at his gut and picking at his brain, demanding an action. If only he knew what action to take, what the hell he was feeling – that would just be a great start.

Again Francis approached him, that calm, sweet smile on his face. He slid his arm around Butch's shoulders and guided him out of the shop and into the house. He was murmuring something, squeezing him closer. But all Butch could think about was what he heard. All the rumors, all the claims, the talk. He couldn't think of anything but how he was… how he had been betrayed. Sure there was no stake in this relationship, this wasn't even a goddamn relationship to begin with but that didn't mean he couldn't be- couldn't feel-

Something in him snapped.

Francis grunted, the fist in his chest knocking him off balance. Any lower and the wind would have been knocked out of him. He backed up, putting some distance between them, raising his arms to block the next blows. What the hell. What the _hell_? Had he said something? Had he presumed too much? Every time Butch stopped over like this, waited for him to finish, it was more often than not for some sex.

The more Francis thought (and dodged), the more he realized Butch had been acting stranger than normal. He had been eyeing him differently. He had asked for softer things – that kiss just a few nights ago was just the more direct of his requests. Fingers even said Butch had been poking around for information- but what the hell was he suddenly throwing punches for? Catching a fist Butch was dead set on forcing into his cheek, he tried to look at him, tried to gauge what he did wrong to make him act like this.

He bent Butch's fist back just far enough to make him cry out. He let go, throwing his hand back, waiting for another strike. He hoped it would stop. The last thing he wanted was to hurt the guy. Which was stupid. Every damn fight they had Hustler _knew_ he could kill Butch twice over if he chose to do so. Hell, everyone knew that, even Butch. But he still he tried. He tried so hard to act tough, to prove his worth. Why, Francis had no idea - he landed a blow to the storyteller's stomach and watched him double around himself, backing off.

What the hell was Butch trying to prove?

He watched Butch get his footing and cough, retrieving his breath again before he rose in earnest. He lowered his fists, waiting for the next more, which more and more he hoped would stop the fight out of nowhere. Butch didn't look like he was ready to stop or do too much of anything. Francis took advantage of this pause, ramming the other into the wall, pinning his arms and everything else to the flat surface. Again, it wasn't hard enough to hurt him, but enough to make him grunt and take notice.

Butch remained there, limp as a ragdoll. Francis wasn't swayed. He kept him there, waiting for a struggle or some shouting or at the very least some form of an explanation. Instead, Butch slowly lifted his head and glanced up at him, something clouding his dark eyes that Francis recognized from somewhere.

"Care to explain?"  
"Jus'… just keep me from thinking, alright? For the rest of the night?" In direct contrast to all his former movements, Butch leaned up and kissed the underside of Francis' jaw "…please?"

Butch wordlessly pleaded, apologizing with tenderness that honestly threw the hustler for a loop. Not two weeks ago all Butch wanted from him was sex, plain and simple. Now, ever since that party…

For half a minute Francis catered to the idea Butch was falling for him. It would have made sense – asking for softer things, poking around for information, fighting and then giving up and giving in like nothing. The party too, when Butch clung to him so desperately, begged for forgiveness. Could it be that Butch felt lovesick?

The only part that didn't factor in was Butch himself. Butch wasn't like this. He wasn't this mushy or lovey. Couldn't be what he thought. He was probably imagining it.

With an internal shrug, he tipped Butch's face up and kissed him right, releasing the storyteller from his pinned position, wrapping his arms around the now more alert body. He paused, waiting for a moment for another moodswing. When nothing came, he kissed him again, pulling away only to lead him to the couch.

O/O

Butch watched him sleep.

It was a bit of a creeper move, but he couldn't help himself. He was in love, after all. He snorted at himself, adjusting his position. Francis had fucked him nice and hard, erasing his brain for a while. Problem was now his thoughts were back tenfold, and perched on top of Fran's broad chest, feeling his heartbeat thrum under his hand, he was even worse off than he was before. He sighed and rested his head on his arms, trying to will himself to sleep – or at least to some different thought pattern.

He wondered if Francis noticed how he felt. Did he care? Probably not. But then again- maybe he did. Reaching up to stroke the sleeping hustlers cheek, Butch couldn't help but think how not being in control sucked. He wanted to tell him- but not really. He was afraid of fucking up what they had. Yeah, it would suck feeling like this, but it would be worse if Fran laughed at him and told him he had no chance.

Francis leaned into the touch on his cheek, which made Butch smile in spite of his fucked up thoughts. He loved him. He loved him, he loved him, _he loved him_. It was getting easier to say inside his own head, but to voice it was still damn near unthinkable. Maybe if he came down with some terminal illness or was put to gunpoint, then he could say it. Maybe even now, with Francis out cold and the house empty and dark. He could do it.

But then Francis shifted and Butch withdrew his hand. Nope. No he wasn't ready to admit it just yet. There would be a time – there was a time for everything. Just… that time wasn't now. It would come eventually, but now…

He cursed himself for being a coward

Slowly, he lowered his head to rest it on the bare chest, listening to the heartbeat under him. It was… nice to feel like this. Safe. Warm. Happy, even. The thought passed through his mind that maybe, just maybe, this wasn't love. It was just a reaction to being safe, cared for. He was probably just taking this friend thing to a much greater level- some of it due to sex, other due to the fact that he never really had a close friend. Lame, pathetic, yes and yes, but it could be the reason he was acting so weird.

Maybe it wasn't love.  
It definitely wasn't love.

Butch nodded to himself and shut his eyes. It could not be love. He did watch an awful lot of cheesy movies, and that thought could just be rubbing off on him. The whole 'unrequited love' curriculum they'd been assigned for reading was more than likely screwing with his head, too. Just because he felt especially close with the hustler didn't mean it had to be love. He would be okay with that. He could stop feeling so desperate or jealous (that was what he was feeling before, he knew it had a name!) and just relax and take sex for sex's sake. He could have this friend and be close- but it didn't have to be love. He could be… okay with that.

Sighing softly and ignoring the mysterious hollow feeling in his chest, he resigned himself to giving up on this love thing. He was probably wrong, anyways.

* * *

**DAMMIT BUTCH. THIS IS A TERRIBLE BIRTHDAY PRESENT. **  
**(He'll get it eventually. Probably. Mmyeahhhno. Not for a damn long time.)**  
**THE BOTH OF YOU ARE SO DIFFICULT I SWEAR TO DOG-**

**Thanks for reading! **


	27. The Perfect Out

**Wow this took longer than I thought. Sorry guys! Things got a little crazy. Next one should take less time.**

**This is another one of those 'close the randomly huge gap' and 'eat up time so I can figure out the damned order' chapters. As such it's not really all that important plot wise, but worth looking at if you're bored or want some continuity. Some. Not a lot.**

**Time to rip Butch apart! Whoo!**

**Enjoy!  
**

* * *

They had been fighting. A lot. Over stupid shit and not so stupid shit and every once in a while something rather important. Point was they had been fighting. Not arguing. Fighting. Thrown punches and words and kicks and curses. They had often talked a big game and play fought before, but that was never more than wrestling and throwing glancing blows. It had gotten so much worse lately. Francis was worried. Butch was starting all of it. Francis ended it.

It wasn't that Francis didn't _like_ the guy, but he had been something of a raging asshole as of late, so he needed to beat some sense into him. He felt guilty and sour afterward, but Butch almost never did. He always had this stupid little smile on his face after he wiped some of the blood away, and often he would chuckle as he brushed himself off, looking like nothing had happened. It confused the salesman almost as much as it infuriated him. He'd punch Butch afterward on impulse, but that would only make Butch smile wider (and make himself feel worse).

Whenever Butch started to get on his nerves he resolved to end it verbally. It had yet to end through words alone, however. Butch seemed to know exactly what to say to get the hustler's infamous temper flaring. What's more, even if he tried his very hardest to keep himself level headed, Butch knew how to turn his words around until he choked on them, enraged, and tried to strangle Butch so he could suffer the same wordless fate.

But what Francis didn't realize was that Butch not only instigated but also welcomed these exchanges.

Butch felt better when Francis wasn't being sweet to him. He was trying desperately to call back the days before they were together, before this exclusive arrangement turned into something mundane. Butch thought that maybe then he would forget about his terrifying revelation and he could just get over it. He'd decided that would be the easiest way to cope with the slightly hollow thudding in his chest. Granted, he chose the absolute worst and most fucked up way he could think of, but it was almost working, so he kept on with it.

The only problems were times like these. The moments after or between. When Francis would attempt apology or reconciliation. He'd do the same thing every time. He'd tend to his wounds (if he had any), the not quite sneak up on him, always managing to corner him at a bad place or time. He'd watch quietly at first, wait it out, give Butch the chance to say something or at the very least lift his head and look in his direction. Butch tried not to (he'd slipped a few times), but it didn't matter. Francis would approach him anyway and somehow work his arms around him. Then Butch would give in.

It was so simple. So stupidly simple. It made him sick to know he fell for the same thing every time. It made him hurt to fall in love with him all over again whenever he pulled that bullshit stunt. It wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair that all Francis had to do was shrug his shoulders and forgive him like it was nothing.

They'd often end up sleeping together after the more violent random fights. Francis blamed it on overactive hormones. Butch blamed it on his pathetically weak will power.

Tonight was one of those nights.

It was midsummer, so the AC was on to cool them off. On top of that, with Francis being rich, his room was temperature controlled, so the machine was working somewhat frantically to restore the room to a comfortable sixty-five degrees. They hadn't felt it before, too consumed in each other, but the heat had dispersed and blanketed the room, leaving the two chilled and shivering for more than one reason.

Bruised and sweating, covered in marks, they lounged on top of the sheets on top of each other. They tried to catch their breath and move sore, cramped muscles. Butch had welts on his back and front and everywhere really and had begun to shiver from the cold air washing over his skin, so he shifted off of the hustler and under the sheets, tangling himself up in them despite the slight pain it caused. He could hear Francis panting beside him, grunting against his own scratches and bite marks. Butch shut his eyes. He didn't want to look at him – not yet. Probably not until morning. It wasn't that he was ashamed of the sex (he'd done it often enough) or even the circumstances (again, he'd done that often enough) – just that he gave in. He always gave in.

"Why?" Francis asked someone. Butch wasn't sure if it was directed at him, but he answered anyway.  
"Why what?"  
"Why are you so pissed off lately?" Then came the question Butch had been dreading. "Did I do something wrong?"  
"No."  
"So what's up?"  
"Fuck you. That's what's up."

Butch rolled over onto his side and winced, taking the blankets with him. Francis followed. He draped his arm over Butch and Butch didn't bother struggling. He couldn't anymore tonight.

"I don't like hitting you." He mumbled, clearly sleepy.  
"Then don't."  
"Lemme rephrase. I don't like fighting with you."  
"Well that really sucks for you then."

Butch listened as Francis inhaled, as if he was about to say something. But the words never came. Instead, the inhale turned into a yawn and was promptly stifled when Francis bowed his head, pressing his mouth to Butch's mostly uninjured shoulder. He winced, but didn't say anything, opening his eyes and looking at the wall. He was in mild pain, parts of him ached, but he felt that strange warmth creeping around him, dulling everything else. He caught himself sighing and going limp in the other's arms. He tried not to, but he couldn't stop it, and words tumbled out of his mouth before he could quiet them.

"I'm sorry." He muttered quietly, hoping it went unheard. "I don't know what I'm doing anymore."

Francis made a noise and made Butch spasm. The hustler paid him no mind and pulled him into his burning body. Butch bit his lip, afraid that Francis knew the real meaning behind those words, that he knew absolutely everything and was just fucking with him now. That would be exactly what he deserved for being so fucking stupid. He had tried so hard to refuse it but now… now it was inescapable. He loved Francis, absolutely and without question.

Butch waited for the deep, rhythmic inhales to become steady. It was only then he dared turn around and looked at the sleeping face. He very nearly whined, curling into the other's relaxed hold, pressing his face to the bruised and nearly broken skin. It was only then he would let himself go completely, fall into the truth he tried to avoid in daylight, and pretend Francis knew and felt the same.

It was only then he could sleep soundly.

O/O

"Hey boss."

Butch strolled up to the hustler's garage in a considerably better mood than usual, taking a hit off a fresh cigarette and poking around aimlessly like he owned the place. Francis rolled his eyes but let him do as he pleased while he finished up taking stock. Butch seemed content with putting his fingerprints on everything, so Francis took an extra few minutes to clean off the shiny-surfaced items, fixing the other male with a look that made most people wither and crawl off. Butch only grinned cheekily and leaned against the wall, eyeing the lighters.

"So what do you need me to push?" Butch asked, breaking the silence while HK locked up  
"I don't need you to push anything."

Butch dropped his cigarette. Francis barely noticed, pulling the garage door down and locking it, punching in the codes. He glanced back when Butch made a few half-attempted words and belatedly stamped on his cigarette to put it out. The hustler made a face and indicated for him to sweep it up. Butch ignored him and stared.

"I mean it." Francis said, handing him the brush and pan. "It's okay."  
"But our deal-"  
"I was never going to tell." Butch gaped at him. "Did you really think I was going to? Give me a little credit Butch – I wouldn't betray your trust like that. I'm not completely heartless."  
"Oh. Yeah I… I mean I _figured_ but… uhm…"

Butch gestured uselessly with the brush, ultimately giving up and dropping to his knees, sweeping his mess and then setting it aside. He looked worried, dubious. He was expecting the punch line, the 'but you can do this for me instead'. But there wasn't one coming. Francis merely crossed his arms and shrugged.

Francis didn't want to, but he sort of had to.

Butch was confusing as a general rule, but lately he'd been more perplexing than usual. It was like he was bipolar, or at the very least unhappy with something. After some extended thought Francis figured Butch was getting sick of their product placement arrangement since all the fights more or less started in or around his stock. He didn't see the use in explaining this to the other boy. He didn't have to say anything and he didn't owe Butch anything, and Butch didn't owe him anything or have to tell him anything either. Really, he just wanted this whole mess to be fixed. It was bothering him much more than it should have.

"I'm cutting you loose. It's okay. I'll manage. Go enjoy your freedom."  
"… Alright." Butch mumbled, looking at the ground "Guess that frees up my weekend…"  
"Want me to give you something to do? This place could use sweeping. Since you're down there already."

For a second, Francis thought that Butch was actually going to go for it (and if the boy was that desperate then the hustler really had no cure). But then he laughed instead and shrugged, smiling some and turning on his heel, waving over his shoulder, saying something like he'd seem him later. The hustler was equal parts glad that he'd done something good for his friend and concerned that Butch took it in such an odd way.

O/O

The following Monday, something strange happened.

Francis was in the courtyard, minding his own business, when some of the Fifth Street kids came by. They pointed and eyed him, but no one bothered to approach until one loped up and rubbed his nose and blinked, clearly tired (or high) and looking for something.

"Hey, you got any of those things?"  
"I have plenty." Francis said, opening his coat (he was used to these vagaries) "What thing are you lookin' for?"  
"That thing from the story. With that guy."  
"What?"  
"You know. That thing he's got. Before he croaks. Or after. Or was it the other guy. I dunno."

The hustler stared, somewhat bewildered, but glad for the business. Fingers glared at him from his corner (good naturedly-of course) and Francis snapped back to attention, sending him a triumphant smirk despite his inward confusion. He belatedly picked up on the word 'story'. Francis could only think of one place where this kid heard a story with subliminal advertising. He thought of asking him where, just to be sure, but then the guy grunted in recognition.

"Oh, there it is." The kid reached in and picked on up, grinning to himself. "How much?"  
"How much you got?"

Amidst his haggling, Francis was smiling an unnaturally pleasant manner, making a mental note to pay a visit to a certain someone.

O/O

Butch, as always, was relatively easy to find.

Francis lingered in the alleyway, waiting for Butch to notice or wave him in. Butch made a spectacular show of trying not to ignore the shadow of the hustler and go on with his smoking. Undeterred, Francis approached him. He didn't say anything right away, but standing so close forced the storyteller to turn and notice him. When Butch resisted even that, Francis cleared his throat and asked him:

"Why?"  
"'Cause." Butch mumbled, hiding behind his cigarette "I've been thinking."  
"About."  
"Things."  
"No specifics?" Butch shook his head "Anything I can help with?"  
"No."

Sighing, Francis looped an arm around Butch's shoulder casually. Butch shifted only slightly, but seemed to hold the weight pretty well. For some reason it felt heavy around them, like something was unspoken, and neither party could really put their finger on it.

(That was a lie – Butch knew. Francis didn't)

"You don't have to, you know." The hustler murmured, almost afraid to break the heaviness. It was like it was holding them in place.  
"I know."  
"I thought that was what you wanted. Me to stop, you know, using you."  
"You're not- I didn't think you were."  
"I wasn't"" Francis amended quickly "But every fight happened after or around work…" The hustler lowered his head some, looking sheepish. "I jumped the gun, I guess."  
"Yeah. No. It's cool."  
"Was it the… other arrangement?"

Butch's calming mantra ground to a sudden, screeching halt. His head snapped to look at the hustler, who looked both sheepish and completely serious. His insides dropped to his feet and rebounded inside him, scattering and settling in all the wrong places. He felt sick, but tried not to show it, biting down on the filter, trying to figure out how things went so terribly wrong in less than forty-eight hours. Francis shifted uneasily under his unbroken look of dread so to break the silence (as he often did) he continued to talk.

"We can stop that, if you really want-"  
"No!" Butch blurted suddenly, the cig falling to the floor unnoticed.  
"No?"  
"No. No no, I… that's fine. I'm just… I'm fine. Better now. I'm good, really. I like the way things are."  
"I only ask because you seem off lately. You sure there's nothing I can do?"  
"No. Yeah." Butch shook his head. "I'm fine. Really. Believe me, Franny. It's not you, it's me."  
"You're sure this isn't a breakup?" He replied jokingly.  
"Nuh-uh." Butch shook his head and rolled his shoulders, seeming a bit anxious. "It's cool. We're good. I am, anyway. Are we?"  
"I assumed so."  
"Good."  
"Good."

Francis gave him a smile and patted his shoulder. They parted awkwardly, but Butch couldn't help but grin. He felt like the weight had been lifted from him, like he could breathe again. Crisis successfully averted, or so it seemed. Butch reached for his cigarette, belatedly discovering it was on the ground, and tried to play the motion off like he was thoughtfully rubbing around his mouth for some reason. Francis caught him on it and smirked. Butch punched him in the arm.

He was sure everything was back to normal now.  
At least as normal as he thought he could get.

* * *

**Butch, why you so self depreciative? IT'S NOT GOOD FOR YOU STOP THAT.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	28. Mad Dash

**Hey who wants more filler? Everyone, OKAY COOL. **  
**The next plot chapter is taking quite a bit of time. Which is cool because it's going to be long, but it's also going to take a while. **  
**You get drabbles in the mean time WHOOP. **

**Enjoy! **

* * *

It was late. He should have gone to bed by now, but he was busy looking through a book, underlining words and names and numbers. He wasn't sure why, but it was important, and he needed to find one more name before he fell asleep. He felt tired, but it had to be done, something would happen if it wasn't done and wasn't done right. But then he heard knocking. It was probably nothing or no one, so he ignored it, until he looked up and heard it again and knew someone was at the door. He put aside the book and bookmarked his place with the pencil he'd been using and got up and opened the door.

Francis was standing there, shirtless but in his coat, staring at the door expectantly and paused mid-knocking motion. He smiled sheepishly and bowed his head. Butch stared, looking directly at his bare chest.

"Can I come in?"  
"Yeah. Sure."

Butch stepped aside, letting the other man into his room. Francis looked around, but neither of them said anything for a few minutes. Then Francis slipped the coat off his shoulders, letting it hang on his elbows, watching Butch intently. Despite the stare, Butch was content, glad to see him, but somewhat confused. He felt like he should be doing something. Something important.

"Can I use your shower?"  
"Where's your shirt?" Butch asked.  
"Lost it. Spare one?"  
"Okay."

Butch shrugged some and pulled the shirt off his back. Rather than handing it to Francis he let it drop to the floor. He didn't feel anxious despite his scars and the windows and the flimsy door. He was too busy watching the other man. Francis let a smirk pull over his lips and suddenly he was a lot closer than before without moving and his coat was gone. He slid one arm around Butch's waist and the other up into his hair, bending his neck back. Butch suddenly felt warm, hot, a familiar welling building inside him and spreading though all of his limbs. He smiled.

"Can I use your shower?" Francis asked again.  
"Uh-huh."  
"Thank you." The hustler bowed his head and almost but not quite kissed his neck, breathing over it hotly instead "Join me."  
"Nngh- yes. Okay."

Francis purred or hummed or made some noise that made Butch shudder and gape in his hold. It was hot, burning, perfect. He felt wrapped up in it and breath washing over his skin and his pulse flying through him while the hustler almost but not quite touched and kissed and felt him. This almost, right before the brink drove him insane with want and he could barely keep from arching up and squirming and throwing his head back with a moan, just short of the searing burn left by lips and fingers. Butch shuddered again, surrendering, giving up. He was sure there was something he should be doing, but dammit this made him ache and whatever it was could wait so long as his want was satisfied.

He felt sort of light, as if he might fall, and Fran growled at him to stay upright. So he tried, wanting badly not to disappoint him. But it was too good. He kept bending back farther and farther, stretching out of his skin and trying to hold onto the air until he finally slipped free of Francis' hold and fell back into a pit that opened up in the floor, devoured by cold grey panic.

With a short jolt, Butch hissed and arched, flopping on the bed as if he'd fallen some great height, suddenly staring at his television on standby and his room still lit by the table lamp he forgot to shut off. Is breath was labored and he shivered, twisted up in his blankets. Shifting in his bed sheets, Butch hissed and shuddered for another reason, then groaned and pressed his face, defeated, into his pillow. After a moment to assure himself he was in his room, safe and sound, Butch swung his legs over the side of his couchbed and stared hard at his lap, glaring until he wilted under his own hatred in and of himself.

This wasn't the first time it had happened. It sure as hell wouldn't be the last, either. And it was all Francis' fault. (Something had to be his damn fault – Butch had already taken the fall of most of the shit that had gone down lately). In the wake of it all he really only felt traces of want and a lingering notion he had something important to do that he was forgetting. Butch ignored both and put his face in his hands, rubbing his eyes. It wasn't fair. He was tired. He had tried to be good. He went to bed early. He didn't eat anything weird or drink too much or watch anything before bed. Butch just wanted one halfway normal night, but no such luck.

Without thinking about it he put on his shoes and grabbed a coat too light for the cold air and clamored out his basement window. He didn't know where he was going and he didn't care – so long as it was away from his thoughts. The caught up to him walking, cantering, even jogging, so Butch had no choice but to run.

Despite logic determining Butch would absolutely _suck_ at running for any length of time due to his smoking habit, Butch ran with the best of them. The best of them being by himself, in the middle of the night, for no real reason other than to think or escape or kill off some energy. He was actually quite good at running, even if it did make his lungs and legs ache and feel like they were being cleaved off of his bones. He couldn't remember when he started but it was one of those things he had to do from time to time. He'd get restless and run and then feel better. It was a guilty pleasure of his. No one knew, and he never bothered to tell.

Much like Francis.

Butch ran harder, trying to evade his thoughts, failing miserably. They kept pace and surpassed him so he was blind sighted, running headlong into them and stumbling. He nearly fell, but he kept on, not quite closing his eyes but not seeing anything anyway.

That dream hadn't been the only one lately. They'd gotten worse, more frequent, and a hell of a lot racier. Butch blamed it on himself and his suppressed confession, but he'd much rather deal with this privately than fuck up everything else. He'd already almost ruined it. He'd rather not deal with it again.

But these damned _dreams_!

All in all, Butch was glad this one made some sort of convoluted sense. Linear progression, like a narrative. That was cool with Butch – a story he could follow. A fantasy. The last couple had just been drop-in scenes. Either he was watching the hustler strip or he seemed to regain consciousness mid connection. He wasn't complaining per say. It just bothered him there was no story.

What bothered him more was that when he finally slowed to a stop he was looking at Francis' house. He sneered at his legs and kicked himself, literally. His subconscious was trying to kill him, or at the very least drive him totally insane. So for a while he stared at the house, angry with it and himself and just the present moment. But after a time he wandered over to it, hi breath calmed some, and proceeded to break in. It wasn't hard. Francis ahd givein him the information not too long ago, and apparently had forgotten to change it. He slipped in without incident, locked up behind himself, and walked the dark halls.

It was a bit more difficult to navigate in the dark. Butch felt like the house was a million times larger, hidden in shadows and silent as death. He twitched at his own thought and kept looking over his shoulders, sleepily wondering if Francis maybe employed ghosts as backup security. He'd think the idea was stupid in the morning, but for right now he was moderately afraid, and crept as quickly as he could to where he thought Fran's bedroom was. Butch pushed open a few doors and was relieved to find a large lump in the middle of one of the beds, the center of it raising and falling with breath.

He shut the door behind him and the figure stirred. Undeterred, Butch shed his coat and shoes and rubbed his arms, finally registering how cold he was. He shuffled over to the bed and stood for a moment, watching Francis half sleep, shifting around in bed, clearly disturbed by something. Butch almost reached out and smoothed down his bedhead, but he was wary of receiving a broken arm by way of retaliation. So he rubbed his arms and shifted his feet and then finally spoke up, stage whispering to the other male.

"Franny, move over. I wanna lie down." The body hissed, stiffened, and finally woke up.  
"Butch?" Francis slurred "Issat you?"  
"Yeah it's me. Chill."  
"How did you –"  
"Magic." Butch deadpanned, trying to work his way onto the bed. Francis lifted his hand to halfheartedly push him away, annoyed despite being confused. Butch ignored it and said "Go back to sleep."  
"You're breathing hard. And you're damp. And cold."  
"Thanks Capitan Obvious. Shove over."

Reluctantly, Francis did. Butch clamored into bed beside him, curling up under the covers and sighing against him. He scooted over into the space left by the natural arc Francis slept in. Once Butch took his place the hustler shifted and conformed to him, which was kind of pleasant in a really weird way. Butch quieted his mind and tried to stop any more thoughts. He just wanted to sleep. Francis probably did too by the way his shifted under the blankets, burrowing into them.

"Are your parents going to flip out?" Hustler asked suddenly, a passing thought.  
"Maybe."  
"Butch-"  
"Chill. I'll only stay a while. Until I get my breath back."

They both knew Butch was going to spend the night. Francis merely solidified the fact by shifting and settling back into bed, putting his arm around the heavily breathing storyteller and pressing his face into his neck. Despite having his house broken into he was actually pretty alright with having Butch here. However, he was slightly less alright with the dampness and heavy breathing and slight pressure against his thigh. He wasn't sure if Butch came here with the intention for sex (which wasn't happening) or for his bed but either way he was being distracting and he needed to _stop_.

"You need anything?"  
"No. M'good."  
"Oh really? What's this then?"

Butch gasped, feeling Francis' hand wrap around his cock. He hadn't bothered to remove the flimsy fabric, stroking right along with it, making it bunch and pull at him. In all honesty Butch was more than ready to just sleep, but if Francis wanted to then he would oblige. He didn't even notice he'd somehow gotten half hard – had that much of a pattern developed? Butch had little time to think about it. After a few strokes Francis removed his hand only to pull away his sleep pants and slide his hand inside, touching him anew. Butch bit his lip and figured that, if he was going to be like that, then he had no complains, and reached out. But Fran batted his hand away when he tried to reciprocate.

"Mmnn." He mumbled, "Don't."  
"But you're-"  
"I'm not. Tired. Don't start me up I'll never get back to sleep."  
"But-"  
"Shh."

Butch quieted down, shutting his eyes and exhaling. The hard on he'd run away from came back full force, throbbing wantonly in the other male's careful hold. Butch felt kind of bad letting him go without, but Francis stubbornly bowed his head and arched his body away, moving his hand in a familiar rhythm. Butch was simply left to swallow and shift, pushing against his hand and pressing his face into the mattress. It only took a blissful few minutes to come.

He shook, trembled, exhaled quietly into the bed. His usual mewls and screams seemed out of place, even his heavy breathing rattled the strange quiet spell in the room. It was only afterwards he noticed Francis was speaking. Speaking might have been pushing it. He was murmuring half words and phrases, gently withdrawing his hand and pressing his moving mouth to his neck. Butch felt oddly warm and really content despite the other male's grumbling.

Francis rolled over while Butch basked in his afterglow to clean off his mussed hand. Once he was done with that he remained on the side opposite Butch, facing the other wall. He shut his eyes and mumbled goodnight and figured that was the end of that.

Butch, on the other hand, blinked blearily and stared, waiting for Francis to turn over. When he didn't Butch shifted a bit and tried not to be moody, but continued to look at the hustler's spine and quietly hope that he'd turn around. It didn't work, and for a long time Butch just lie there waiting, determined not to be the one to break. But eventually he did. He squirmed as quietly as he could, pushing himself upward and over. Since Fran was being a dick, Butch would just have to spoon him awkwardly. Settling his face into the hustler's neck and throwing an arm over him for good measure, Butch finally figured it was okay for him to fall asleep.

Much to his surprise, Francis reached up and tugged his hand forward a little more, pulling the rest of Butch right up close and muttering under his breath. Butch smiled against his skin and shut his eyes, almost immediately falling asleep.

* * *

**FUCKING AWWW.  
****Butch you are cute. Francis would think so but he is a sleepy grump right now.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	29. Running Ahead, Running Late

**HEY GUESS WHAT. You guys get another drabble. A combo drabble. More running!Butch. Also more explicit gay. I know what you guys like.**

**I made up Butch's last name. Feel free to ignore it I WILL BE USING IT HOWEVER but it's not all that important. Don't stress.**

**Also there's a new hustler mentioned in passing . He's probably going to show up again because I love his premise and why the fuck not hustlers are fun.**

**The next plot chapter is going to be a while. Like…a while. It's going to be obese, probably going to be split into subchapters because _damn_. Also school is eating me. Sorry in advance :/**  
**You get some kinda graphic sex to make up for it! Yaay!**

Enjoy!

* * *

It was gym day. One of those days that no one really wanted to have (except for the jocks) but it was state mandated so you had to do it unless you were badly injured or could forge really well – and even then the alternate lecture class was about the same level of shittyness. To add to the general disgusting of the day, it was a lovely seventy degrees and, most importantly, it was the day of the Mile Run. It wasn't a statewide mandatory requirement, but Principal Prickly (always on the cutting edge of new, even more so since he'd been promoted to High School after the old principle had been caught in something of a scandal) decided it was about time his school shaped up (so to speak). His students suffered, as they often did when Prickly decided to do something new – a habit he had yet to outgrow from Grade School.

As it turned out, it was the boy's day to run. In the locker room, there was a general murmur of discontent and a fair amount of bitching. Everyone knew Vince LaSalle would place first and probably break his old record. Skeens would probably be right behind him, if he decided to run at all, just to keep the coach off his back for the rest of the day, provided he didn't just ditch and sit with Sleeps up in the bleachers. Lawson would be right behind LaSalle as per usual, cursing under his breath and dealing death glares. The rest of them would trickle in, mostly in a large line or ball of panting kids who were still bitching and were trying to figure out how to get out of doing it _again_.

Between the grumbles and locker slams, Coach Miller poked his pig nose into the locker room and barked orders for them to get out on the track and prepare for the first eleventh grade run. They shuffled their feet out, passing the girls who laughed at their soon-to-be pain, and waited at the starting line.

"Okay boys!" Miller barked, holding up the stopwatch "You all know what to do. Do your best, try not to keel over and die. I'm not dragging your asses off the track. Remember, if you get more than minute added on your second time, I'm taking the longer time, so don't run what you can't repeat! Get ready!"

The class groaned, but got ready regardless, making a token attempt to ignore the girls, who were still laughing at their expense while they picked teams for some yet-to-be decided activity. Vince limbered up and wished TJ luck, and laughed when he got a good-hearted punch to the arm. Mikey sighed and centered himself (finding peace with his slightly longer than everyone else's running time) while Sleeps trotted past him and ambled up a few flights of bleachers and promptly fell asleep (lucky bastard had a medical excuse). Gus stretched a bit and situated himself four lanes over from Gelman (lest they bump into each other). Lawson sneered and shoved his way to the front, creating an imaginary starting line between him and Vince. Skeens tried to sneak away, but was promptly collared and forced into the mass of boys. Hustler and Fingers shifted a bit uncomfortably, oddly out of place and kind of ordinary looking without their giant coats. Butch filtered his way in among the masses, hiding in plain sight. The larger chunk of the class groaned collectively and made various plans to torture Prickly for this - or at least egg his car.

The whistle sounded and they were off.

Unsurprisingly Vince, Skeens, and Lawson pulled out in front. Immediately it became a competition for Vince and Lawson, the two boys glancing at each other, grimacing, and then running harder. Skeens was trotting behind them, trying to get this over with. Mikey and Gelman and a few of the more lazy students fell behind, already pissed off and fed up with the heat and effort (though Mikey was ahead of that pack – being the only one putting in a token effort). The rest of the kids filtered into a haphazard, blotchy line of jogging, panting boys that glared at the coach as they passed.

Somewhere along the line, Butch's mind started to wander. It meandered off the white lines of the track and into some thoughts he'd been saving for free period. Some story ideas he'd been toying with involving a ball of string an old woman and a gouged-out eye. It strayed from that to night, and from night to _last_ night specifically. He'd meet up with Hustler and they had hung out and made out and watched some weird move on his big ass TV.

Butch could hardly remember the movie. He was too busy taking up as much space as possible and ruining it for the hustler. Not that the other minded. He laughed and smiled and cracked a few jokes of his own. It was that smile Butch remembered and focused on. That smile. Not just _any_ smile, or his merchant smile, but the actual smile that he barely ever used unless they were alone. Butch smiled a little himself. That smile, he figured, was the smile just for him. He kind of liked the sound of that. A smile just for-

"Kirwain!" Butch came to a halt, lifting his head "Kirwain! You're done!"  
"What?"  
"You're _done_ Kirwain! Yah don't get extra props for running an extra lap! Kudos, though. You finished up with LaSalle and Skeens."

Butch blinked, looking back at the kids behind him. Vince was staring. Skeens was already scaling the cheap metal stairs to his sleeping friend. Lawson looked more pissed off than usual. The other kids were trying to make it to the finish line while staring at the few who had gotten there before they had.

"Hey man, since when can you run?" Vince asked. "I mean, no one ties me. That's gotta be… I dunno."  
"Look, it's nothing. Really." Butch snorted and turned away from Vince, trying to make a clean getaway. "Why don't you go challenge Skeens? He's, like, at the same level. I just got lucky."  
"Naw man." Vince started. "Skeens' don't count"  
"Lawson then?"  
"He's not-"  
"What was that, La_STUPID_?" Lawson interjected, stomping right over.  
"Butt out Lawson this ain't about you!"

The storyteller escaped Vince's rampant need for an explanation (or, God forbid, a rematch) by weaving his way through the now-large crowd of kids. The argument between LaSalle and Lawson turned into a shouting match which their friends and the coach trundled over to break up immediately. Butch slipped out and away, off the track and out of sight. He heard some more shouting, whistle blowing, and the two teens on the bleachers shifting around. Otherwise, Butch had the moment to himself.

Butch rubbed his head and leaned the cool side of the metal bleachers. Normally… normally he kept himself under control. Held back. He didn't want to show anyone up or get noticed. That was not part of the plan. His mind didn't normally take over like this in school. It usually stayed out until four in the morning. Butch let his head thud on the metal and he groaned, rubbing his eyes. A sudden weight on his shoulder forced an embarrassing twitch, his eyes flying open.

"Hey Butchy boy." Hustler murmured, squeezing his shoulder "You okay?"  
"Yeah. I'm good."  
"What the hell happened out there, Speedy?"  
"I spaced. Don't cal me Speedy, _Francine_."  
"I should slap you." The hustler snickered and moved his hand from his shoulder to pat his cheek "But I won't."

He stepped back, looked around, and stepped forward again, kissing the corner of his mouth for a split second. He pedaled backwards and jogged over to the mass of kids, who had begun to migrate over to the fields. Butch was left speechless, and he tried his best to rub the blush off his face before he ran over to join the rest of the class

O/O

Francis leaned against the wall of the building, looking out into the night. He should have known better than to take this shift. But then again, he owed Kink a favor, and if he was willing to let him off for one late night shift then he would take it. Glancing back into the empty shop, then out into the night, Francis let his eyes shut for a second. He was glad, for once, that business was slow.

His eyes opened a moment later, looking out into the dark. He was sure he heard footsteps, which meant he had to look a little bit more awake than he did previous for the upcoming customer. Hopefully he wouldn't have to put up with any weird song and dance or any personal questions. He'd evaded them so far, and he wanted to keep his lucky streak going. So he scanned the street, finally picking out a form that seemed to be coming closer and at a good clip toward him. Strange – joggers usually cropped up at dawn. He checked his watch and determined that whoever this weirdo was he had another three hours before the sun even though about coming up (and he had only an hour left of his shift, which he was personally thrilled about). Still, though, he kept his eyes on the figure that was coming closer, wondering why someone was running, who this person was, what they could want, why they had a white stripe in the middle of their head-

"Butch?" he wondered aloud, then louder "Butch!"

Butch, plagued by dreams, had taken to running again. He was more conscious of his running tonight, so he plotted an actual, mostly barren course for himself. He planned on not sleeping, so lumped together a few routes and pushed himself. His mind went blank when he overexerted himself. But, now jarred from that, the blank collapsed and buckled in on itself, crashing and making him look sort of dim and wide-eyed. A moment or two he registered Francis looking at him curiously, and he raised his hand in hello.

"Oh hi!"  
"Butch, what the hell are you doing?"  
"Overthrowing world currency markets. What does it look like?"  
"I can see you're running, jackass." Francis snapped, motioning him over "Didn't know this was a thing with you."  
"It's not… okay. It is." He looked sheepish "Gonna tell on me?"  
"No. Why would I?"  
"It's a joke. Lighten up."

Butch took Francis up on his beckoning and ambled over, crossing the road and leaning against the outside wall. The hustler was careful to block the entrance to the shop without being too obvious about it. He had a hunch Butch wouldn't take too kindly to the type of things Kink sold – and if he wasn't put off by that then Francis was pretty sure that he'd never live it down. Butch didn't seem to notice, taking deep, even breaths (why the hell wasn't he wheezing – he smoked like a damned chimney how could he run in the first place?) and looking up at the sky.

"What are you doing all they way out here?" Francis asked idly, eyeing him out the corner of his eye.  
"I thought we went over this already."  
"I meant why aren't you sleeping?"  
"I was bored. Restless. Nothing was on."  
"So you run."  
"Yep."  
"Why aren't you in Cross Country or Track or something?"  
"It's just something I do. Not really a sport to me, you know? Besides, those Track and Field guys are waaay to into it for me. And those shorts are, like, only down to here." Butch pointed to his upper thigh for emphasis. Francis let a small smile spread across his face, and Butch smacked him for it. "Bad Fran. Mind out of gutter."  
"You brought it on yourself."

Butch frowned and punched him in the arm. Then he took it back, pulling the man down by his collar and kissing him quickly. Francis was a bit too distracted by the thought of Butch in purple short-shorts and a tight white shirt to properly respond to Butch's sudden kiss or his curiosity with the inside of the stall. He remained blissfully ignorant until Butch made a low whistling noise and vanished from his side. He whirled around to find Butch holding up a dildo, wagging it back and forth, a bizarre smile on his face. Francis felt his neck heat up – this was one of those things that he was never going to live down.

"So." Butch said, breaking the silence "Something you're not telling me?"  
"It's not what you think-"  
"So this isn't a big black dildo?"  
"No- no _that_ is what it looks like. But this whole thing-"  
"Isn't yours?"  
"-isn't mine." Hustler finished lamely. His mouth twitched and he tried again. "I'm watching it for someone."  
"Ha! Oh that's new." Butch's eyes were lit up by now and his mouth split his face in half. Francis felt angrier than he had been in a while.  
"Shut the fuck up."  
"Okay. Okay – I'll be quiet." He snickered, but covered it well "Go on."  
"I owed another hustler a few favors. He said he'd let me off the hook if I watched his shop for a night."  
"Fair enough." Butch admitted, putting the toy down. His voice was still tight "Just one thing – what was this guy's name?"  
"Kink."

That was is. Butch doubled over and howled with laughter, collapsing onto the floor. The hustler glowered at him, wanting to hit and kick, but refrained. Instead he crossed his arms over his chest and watched Butch roll around laughing, clutching his stomach and gasping for air. Francis didn't see what was so funny. He hoped Butch choked. That would teach him.

Eventually Butch regained his ability to breathe and think. Still agitated, Francis had turned and started packing up, ignoring Butch when he complained about pains in his sides and stomach. He kept an eye on the little monster, though – wary of him getting up and starting to touch things again. He slapped Butch's hand the second he tried to pick through a box and promptly ignored the hurt look on his face. They passed the rest of the hustler's shift in a relatively amicable silence, punctuated by Butch's immature giggling and Francis' bored sighs.

Being denied the ability to touch any of the merchandise, Butch finally gave up trying to look at and decipher what everything was by vision alone and turned to the half awake hustler, who was still taking inventory. Without warning he wandered over to the other and flopped against his side, wrapping his arms around his shoulders.

"I can't believe you're just _working_."  
"What else would I be doing?"  
"No – I mean… this doesn't, you know, _get_ to you?"  
"Not really, no." He paused "I can see it gets to you, however."  
"What makes you so sure?"  
"I can feel it, you little pervert." Francis deadpanned, watching the red flare up on Butch's face "I'm just used to it. I've been around Kink since I was a preteen. None of this bothers me. Not anymore, anyhow."

Butch squirmed uncomfortably for a few moments after being found out, but eventually he grinned at him from his place on Francis side, hanging off of him like a mutant squirrel and looking quite content to be there. The hustler fixed him with a stare, but it wasn't nearly as menacing or bored looking as he hoped. He was too tired to put his heart into it, and Butch was warm and felt nice up against his arm if he ignored the semi-hardness pressing up against his thigh (which he did, and very well). However the imitation hug was detached and Butch deposited on a counter before too long so Francis could go about locking up and getting home.

Unhappy with the turn of events, Butch watched. He frowned, squirmed a bit, and kept his eyes on Fran's ass when he bent over to secure some boxes. The storyteller whined and caught him up as he walked past to get the sheet of inventory, catching him between his legs and keeping him in place while he read over receipts. With Butch desperately trying to be annoying (and Francis trying just as hard to ignore him), he barely registered the numbers before giving up and turning in Butch's hold, kissing him hard enough to force him back onto the flat surface, and the getting up and walking away.

When Butch scrambled into a sitting position, Francis was waiting for him, lingering in the doorway with his keys in his hand.

"Coming?"  
"I sure hope so." Butch mumbled dazedly.  
"If you don't get up in a minute I'm leaving without you."  
"It won't take me that long." He slid off the counter and slipped his way past the waiting hustler (but not without sliding his hands over Fran's chest teasingly) "Race ya?"

Francis watched Butch jog over to his car and tug on the handle. He shook his head, mumbling quietly to himself. He knew he wasn't going to get any sleep tonight, and he didn't really care. He was mostly glad for this chance to blow off some steam after a long shift. Tomorrow morning and further thought be damned. All he had to focus on now was trying to keep Butch from crawling over into his seat and distracting his driving.

O/O

"I'm really rather glad I found you – I kind of fucking _need_ this."

Butch had made that sentiment abundantly clear over the brief car ride to Francis' house, leaning over the console repeatedly to rub his thigh and breath hotly into his ear. The hustler rebuffed his advances with some degree of difficulty, ultimately choosing not driving off the road over pleasure for the time being. He made up for it by pressing Butch right up against the garage door and making out with him until his knees felt weak.

"Bed. Now." Francis rasped, his hands already in Butch's loose pants.  
"Gonna make it?"  
"Not if you keep moving your hand like that."

He rolled his hips obnoxiously and grinned, arching further into the other man. Having none of that, Francis tried to pull off of him and get up the stairs, only to have Butch attach even more closely, going so far as to wrap his legs around Francis hips and rock against him. Francis leaned back against the door, his balance compromised, and reconsidered his options. Having sex in the foyer was looking to be a better and better option, but it also came with cold skin and bad backs and discomfort. After all day and all night standing, lifting shit, and dealing with assholes Francis was not willing to put up with all of that and risk the possibility of mediocre sex. Not tonight, anyway.

It was a miracle that they got up the stairs without falling back down being so tangled up in each other and shedding articles of clothing as they went. Butch was, as per usual, being impossibly difficult, but Francis got them up the stairs and into a room with a bed. It wasn't his room (because then they'd have to walk another ten feet and they wanted this to be happening ten minutes ago), but it had a bed and a door with a lock on it so it worked for their purposes. By the time Butch pushed Francis onto the bed the hustler was missing everything save his already dangerously low pants whereas Butch was lagging a bit, in the process of pulling his shirt off before crawling on top of the other man.

Butch went directly for Francis' open belt while the hustler's larger hands found their place down the back of Butch's sleep pants. His generous groping of the storyteller's ass left him moaning, fumbling with the heavy denim and silk ("Silk Fran? Seriously?" "Shut up and keep moving your hands.") boxers. Once his pants were halfway down his legs he stopped, curled up, and pulled the tube of lube from his pocket before Butch could wrestle the denim from his grip and toss it off the bed. He grabbed Butch up and treated him to the same eager disrobing, flipping them around so Butch was flat on his back on the bed. Butch chuckled and Francis bit his stomach for it, sliding up against him and turning his hiss into a moan.

Within moments Francis had uncapped the lube and pressed two fingers inside the squirming body, kissing along the straining throat and jaw and finally capturing the slacked and moaning mouth. Butch made himself partially usefully by pawing at the body above him, his one hand eventually finding his cock and stroking it. The hustler moaned into his mouth to show his appreciation, wiggling his fingers and adding a third. Butch broke the kiss to curse at him, punch his chest, and demand he fuck him _now_. Francis hooked his fingers and jabbed upwards instead, reducing any and all complaint to babble. He did take pity on him afterwards, amused by the garbled noises and whipped-back head.

The second Francis withdrew his fingers, Butch forced them over, Francis squarely on his back and Butch straddling his hips red in the face but looking determined. Francis choked, momentarily stunned by the sudden strength in Butch and the teasing roll of his hips. His dumbfounded gaze was fixed with a look and a smirk, only deepening once he got his wits about him. The hustler watched Butch raises his hips and shift, putting one hand on his chest to brace himself and reaching the other behind him. It clicked only when Butch stroked his cock a few times and shifted backwards.

"Oh _fuck_ Butch-"  
"You're gonna Franny, you're gonna."

Given that assurance, the hustler could only watch dumbfounded as Butch adjusted himself and eased onto the waiting prick. They both made some sort of noise that was supposed to be words. It took a bit for Butch to get used to the rhythm of things at the new angle, but he caught on quick, determined take over for once. It was great to see Fran at his mercy, and a hell of a lot better seeing and _feeling_ the hustler's eyes all over him. He slapped Fran's hands away when he tried to assist by grabbing his hips and lifting him, mildly annoyed at having to fight to maintain control. Butch had to lean forward and bite Francis to get the message across, but he left his hands there anyway, just without the active lifting and pulling.

Francis, for his part, gathered himself rather quickly, looking between them and up at Butch, bracing himself on his elbows. Watching the lithe body move up and down and his face grow redder and his chest heave was turning out to be as much of a thrill as the actual act. Thrill might have been something of an understatement- this was actually really fucking hot and _watching_ Butch work for him for a change just made it that much better, if not slightly maddening. He moaned, trying to sit up and take a firm hold of Butch again to force the pace to a quicker one, but his hands were batted away and all he could do was throw his head back and moan as Butch ground his hips against him. The hustler grit his teeth and hissed when Butch bowed his head and bit him again, fisting his hands in the sheets, watching him move in a blurry haze.

But after a while of that lovely torture Butch had begun to lose his rhythm. The pace became erratic and stunted, broken and upset, delaying them both for longer than they were willing to tolerate. Francis took over, forcing Butch onto his back, half off the bed (but securely in his hold) and rammed into him with the force he was denied before. Butch shouted and grunted, bucking back into the thrusts, only quieting when Francis crushed their mouths together. He started sputtering anew when the hustler wrapped his hand around his cock, stroking quick and rough. Butch was closer than he realized and came suddenly with a choked cry, stiffing up and throwing his head back. Francis followed shortly after, finishing a few strokes after with a grunt and a sigh, gripping Butch hard before collapsing.

Spent and feeling a good measure more relaxed, they panted and breathed each other in for a few moments. Francis pulled out and rolled onto his back, shuddering a bit from the slightly cooler surrounding air until Butch took up residence on top of them. For some reason the hustler chuckled and moved his arm, his fingers playing over the mark on Butch's neck. He wondered how Butch was going to hide them and how he was going to hide his own. But he figured he'd sleep on it and worry in the morning. Butch was perfectly content to lie there in silence, reflecting over what just happened, and deciding he was just fine with it (if not a little more tha fine) despite it being like one of the dreams he'd had recently. He tilted his head into the randomly wandering touches and looked up at Francis until he looked back. Butch grinned at him.

"So am I better than the stuff you were pedaling?"  
"Much." Francis murmured, his fingers threading lazily through the sweat-damp hair.  
"Damn right I am."  
"Now Butch, don't be jealous." He chastised gently, kissing his forehead "You're the only sexy toy I need."  
"Not your best line, Franny, but thanks." Butch yawned, curling up on his chest, feeling content and warm and sleepy "Wanna go again?"  
"You're not tired?"  
"No. High on sex and running."  
"But you yawned, and you're curled up."  
"I just need a minute get off my ass." Butch grumbled, burying his head into Fran's chest, then shifting back onto Fran's hips, a slow smirk spreading across his face, which was promptly mirrored.

"Ready princess?"  
"Fuck me."

* * *

**Yaaay.**  
**Oh God so tired papers nngh.**  
**So yeah, sorry about the wait before and after this. I'll try and update soon, but don't count on it.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	30. Of Snitches and Screw Ups Part 1

**Whoo damn this has been a long time in coming. I really do regret keeping you all waiting. There's just been a lot of personal stuff - but I won't bore you with it. Thanks for being so patient – this is just the first part. The next part will come a lot sooner than two months. Oh wow I'm terrible. So sorry D:**

**Enjoy **

* * *

There was a disturbance in sector G-4, subsector D. Eyes and ears ever alter, equipment keen and shining, the figure approached. Careful and quiet, skills refined. A school-mandated machine of efficiency. So what if no one really liked it, so what if he had seen his fair share of dumpsters and trashcans and stinkbombs? It was his fate, a solitary eagle watching over the flock of others even if they didn't appreciate it. With his head held high and the rest of him low and hugging the wall, he scrambled in the dark toward the hidden alleyway.

Though Finster was no longer with him (forever doomed to Third Street Elementary School – though she had for some reason insisted on staying there even after Prickly had offered her advancement to the High School), Randall refused to shirk his duties as a spy. He just reported a little higher now, was all (Menlo, usually. Sometimes the assistant principle or Prickly himself, though those instances were rare). Because he reported higher and because he was now older and had access to a greater range of equipment, he had a better means to fulfill the standards he set for himself. What he needed now was simple – tape recorder and scratchpad, but it would prove effective. He would refine his notes later – once he was sure of the perpetrators. And then he would fill out the appropriate forms and submit the information, as usual.

Quick fingers pressed buttons, scratching notes, entering preliminary data. _Evaluation. Two persons. G-4 sub D. Two infractions – Rule 6-1. Rule 14. Possible level 3._ He pushed closer, trying to meld into the wall. Should he be caught he would suffer some form of humiliation at least, if not bodily harm. But this was too good of a job not to report to the boss. Double infraction with possible level two detention. With his reports being naught much more than lackluster lately, this would surely put him back in good graces.

The two people came into view the closer he crept. He stopped just short of being obviously too close. He did so really only for the sake of the recorder – he could already identify the two people involved as being Third Street alumni, and both were particularly psychically identifiable. That (entirely too suspicious) coat and that (bizarre) hair were dead giveaways. He refined his notes, scribbling out his preliminary guess.

Randal frowned, but stayed put. His report might fall a little flat this time despite his earlier guess. Busting Butch for smoking was a surprisingly hard endeavor. Busting the hustler was a little easier, but it carried more risk. But these were repeated infractions. Maybe Prickly would up the punishment (and his reward) for not only snagging them both, but snagging them both _at the same time_.

"Thanks for my cigs, Fran." Butch muttered, a slight tilt to his voice. He reached out, grabbing for them, only to have them yanked away from him, held above his head. The hustler smirked.

"You're welcome."  
"…Can I have them?"  
"You need to pay for them first."  
"Fraaan." Butch whined, grabbing for them, falling, landing on the larger male's chest. "C'mon. You know I'm good for it."  
"Convince me."  
"How the hell am I supposed to do that?"  
"You know how."

Butch made an exasperated noise, his fist thumping weakly against the broad chest. The hustler seemed unmoved, only chuckling low – nearly low enough to be missed. When he opened his mouth again his voice was husky, near purring. His head had ducked down and they were suddenly a lot closer.

"You know how…"  
"Bastard."

Butch's voice too was low and dark, not nearly as offended or angry as he could have been. There seemed to be a shudder to it. Randal wondered briefly if the tape recorder was able to hear them. He soon was wondering if what he was seeing was actually true. Randal almost dropped his recorder and paper. This couldn't be real, it couldn't be true –

But how moist and tender it was…

A plan was already forming in his head. A smirk was pulling at his face unnaturally. He already felt the pride and joy of a brand new, nearly flawless plan in his head. This was too good for Menlo, too good for even Prickly. This was going to serve him so very, very well. Now all he needed was to find a way to execute…

O/O

"Well well well." The Hustler drawled, seeing his latest customer off. "Look what the cat coughed up."

Randal slid out from the shadow he was half hiding in. Not that Hustler paid him much attention. He didn't even have to look over his shoulder to tell the weasel was lurking. It was a damned instinctual thing by now – the hairs on the back of his neck stood up and he felt inexplicably mean spirited. It wasn't his fault – he'd be conditioned to do so. It's hard to forgive someone who habitually attempted to shut down your business.

This time. however, Francis was a little more wary than usual. Randal hadn't said a word. Usually by now he was gloating or trying to negotiate a discount on pain of detention. But he was just… _standing_ there, staring at his back. The hustler grimaced and turned, sufficiently creeped out and wanting nothing more than to just get whatever it was over with. Hopefully he'd want something cheap this time.

"Whatcha want, Snitch?" Hustler sneered, unable to keep the barb to himself "More marbles?"  
"Oh Hustler, I am _hurt_." Randal wailed, his hand going over his heart (any sadness negated by the smirk on his face) "That was so _long_ ago, we were so young then. So foolish. Isn't there _any_ chance of reprieve? We have both grown up, changed. Why not handle things like reasonable, civil adults?"  
"I don't forgive chumps who cheat me." He shot back coldly "Especially ones like you. You haven't changed, you simpering little _fuck_. I don't have time for this. Go pester someone else."

He glowered at the weasel, who looked a little rattled by the sudden temper flare. He couldn't help himself. Randal just made him so fucking _angry_ sometimes, especially when he was being vague. It never meant anything good. He hoped he threw Randal off with his snappish attitude to make him slink away. Hustler just didn't want to deal with him right now. But it seemed he had no such luck. Randal recovered and smirked, folding his hands together.

"Ooh…. Temper temper, Hustler. You should really keep that in check."  
"Didn't I just tell you to piss off?"  
"Not in so many words." That grin was back "It's not healthy to get so mad or to hold such a grudge. You could do some serious damage to yourself. What would everybody _think_ if they found something was out of the ordinary?"

The strange tilt to Randal's voice and the even more ambiguous comment set the hustler even more on edge. Hackles raised, he turned abruptly and started towards the weasel, only to have him skitter back. It didn't scare the smile off his face, though. Hustler snorted, holding his ground, daring him t approach. He didn't, of course, but he did grow bold enough to continue talking.

"But then again… there must be quite a bit people don't know about you. Oh, sure, your temper is _infamous_ and your prices fair – but does anyone know who you really are, when the coat comes off?"  
"Make your point."  
"I wonder, what people will say about you in the next few years-"  
"I said _make your point_!" Francis snapped, his hands balling into fists. "Know what? Fuck it. I've wasted more time on you than you're worth. Go take a long walk off a short bridge, ratfink."  
"Hey wait!" Randal cried, snapping out of his (most likely pre-planned) speech "I'm not done with you yet!"  
"Listen you-"  
"No _you_ listen!" Randal screeched, stamping his foot, knocking the wind out of Francis' response, "You're fucking going to _listen_ this time, Hustler. I'm in charge now. I'm callin' the shots. You shut your mouth, stay put, and wait 'til I'm finished with you."

After that impassioned little speech, both parties stared each other down, struck dumb by the other. The hustler was shocked that someone - _Randal_ of all people- just stood up to him and called him out. Randal just couldn't believe that it _worked_. He was just short of gloating, launching into another prepared paragraph when Hustler started to shake. He was enraged, and for a moment Randal thought he was going to charge like an angry rhino, and so he stood as still as possible, waiting for the next move. Hustler didn't make a move for him, however. He just glared daggers, grit his teeth, clenched his fists, and looked generally menacing. Then, abruptly deciding he'd rather not waste his life paying for a totally justified (to him and everyone else familiar with the snitch) murder, he held his head up and regarded the hunchbacked creep like he was the scum of the earth. Then he turned on his heel and walked away. This, in turn, both shocked and appalled the stoolpigeon. His fuse was a great deal shorter however, and just before Francis was out of earshot he exploded.

"Fine- go! See what I care! No skin off my nose. I guess _everyone_ will just _have_ to know about your little 'mutually beneficial relations' with that storyteller." Francis halted and Randal grinned, pressing onward "Oh, I'm sorry. What's that cute little pet name you have for him? 'Butchy Boy' or something like it? How very, very sweet."  
"What did you _just_ say-?"  
"You heard me."

The mood irreparably altered, Francis went from furious to frightened in about the span of a second, a dark, cold feeling forming in the pit of his stomach and the base of his neck. Randal was just grinning, his fingers steepled. The hustler gaped at him, belatedly searching for some sort of comeback or excuse. Randal beat him to it.

"Ah-ah-ah." He chided "Don't try and talk yourself out of this one now!" He shook his finger at him like he was scolding a child, his voice light and filled with superiority "I _know_. I know quite a bit, actually. About your… friendship. Oh, well, its quite a bit more than that now, isn't it. It's really rather cute. You make a lovely couple."

Francis was silent, unable to answer.

"I know, I know. You must be thinking who will believe _me_, of all people, over _you_. Ah, well I have the solution to that. Let's say I'm… prepared. You sure do spend a lot of time together. Especially in school. You know, you really _should_ be focusing on school work , otherwise I wouldn't have found out about you." He held out a tape recorder, wagging it a little "Or you should have been a little quieter. You can have this one if you like. Go on and rush me, if you really want to. Wrestle it from my hands and smash it on the ground and then pummel me. Not to worry. I have plenty of copies and I know _exactly_ how to use them."

Still quiet, Hustler only stared. His face was blank but pale. Randal knew that look, and he celebrated his victory in his head, mainlining as cool of an exterior as he could. He had just one last point, the final blow that would knock the hustler off his damned pedestal and down into the dirt at his feet where he belonged.

"It's really terrible, if you think about it. I mean, sure, you could probably get back on your feet. They _need_ you for things. All of them might recoil for a while but you're _the_ hustler. They _need_ you in some way, and they'll all come crawling back. But Butch… Well, what does _he_ have? Just a couple of stories and a reputation. That's all. Could you _imagine_ what this would do to him? It's not something he can just worm his way out of – not with so much truth staring him down." Randal tsked and shook his head sadly "A shame… could you _fathom_ how many kids would be on his back if they knew he was bending over for you? Oh sure, there are a few that might not be so upset, but there are some downright _nasty_ people out there, Hustler. I know. They can be _so_ cruel… But I suppose a bit of humiliation doesn't compare to _you_, Francis. This must be so hard for you – knowing you're turning him into such a little _slut_, using him like some cheap tramp to get off on. "  
"But it … it's not-" the hustler tried suddenly, shocked into talking, to defend himself – but his voice was weak and ignorable, easily overridden.  
"Oh really? Well I've got six or seven hours that says it _is_, and says _you_ are."

Francis went quiet again. He swallowed, dropping his eyes to the floor, flicking them up to Randal every few moments. He looked lost, hopeless. Randal was thrilled – but he waited. He wouldn't start the party just yet. He'd wait. It wouldn't be long.

And then Francis opened his mouth and proved he was just a weak, sentimental chump like all the rest.

"What are your demands?"  
"I'm so very, very glad you asked…"

O/O

It was a humiliation he never had anticipated.

The hustler was no stranger to risks, and he knew going into this secretive arrangement with Butch was probably one of the riskiest investments he could have ever ventured into, but he had been doing rather well up to this point. No one suspected anything (and if they did, they kept their damn mouth shut about it) and he got a larger return than he had ever expected. But now, to continue the metaphor, his stock in this had plummeted. It was worthless if everyone knew, and he teetered on the edge of moral bankruptcy. The very fact he had been found out was enough to make him want to start thumping his head against the nearest wall for his stupidity.

The worst part was he was taking the fall for this alone.

He couldn't tell Butch, hell he couldn't even _perform_ he was so distracted. Butch had suspected something, but Francis covered well, whipping up some sob story about a failed deal. Butch pitied him but convinced him making out would make him feel better. It did, marginally, if only because Butch had gotten a lot better at it, good enough to distract the hustler for a little while. Once he left for the night Francis lost the distraction and all will to do anything except lie down and stare into nothing. As time wore on he watched the clock and literally _felt_ the control slip away from him.

Occasionally he'd glance at the storyteller, and a great majority of that first night was split between the clock and his innocent, sleeping face. He resolved to separate himself from Butch, just to be sure. Blank slate. Start over. Maybe if he looked like he gave the brunet up Randal would think his attachment to Butch was just a fluke and drop this whole scheme. He had been given a week to prepare himself, after all, and in that time he planned to at least think of a few exit strategies.

But a week came and went and, though he pushed the storyteller away with excuses and made up appointments, wracking his brain to think of a graceful way to bow out without ruining either one of them irreparably, the hustler was thoroughly lost and defeated while Randal stood as tall as his hunched back would allow.

"Oh good, you showed up." He hissed, wringing his sweaty little hands and grinning ear to ear. "Now come. Walk me to class."

The Hustler sighed, hiding his fists in his pocket, doing as he was told. He was just glad Randal was off to a slow start. He'd played bodyguard before, and with his size people would think twice before starting shit. With any luck, his scowl would keep them from asking any questions either.

About halfway down the hall, however, the hustler was beginning to feel uncomfortable. He knew there would be stares, but he didn't think there could be this much fury and hate directed at one person. There were scores of them, just glaring, their disgust interrupted when they spotted HK, switching from hate to bewildered or trying to look busy. Pulling at his shirt collar, Francis glanced at Randal, who seemed not to notice. He must have gotten used to it, and for a split second Francis pitied him – until he remembered the bastard was fucking blackmailing him, and then he threw in his own hateful stare, only stopping when Randal looked up at him and _smiled_ in such a way it made his skin crawl.

With the walk being relatively painless aside from the angry eyes on him, Randal dismissed him at the doorway, giving him orders to meet him at the doors to the cafeteria. Hustler nodded, a terrible taste in his mouth, barely keeping from grimacing as he led down the hallway semi-quickly. He could fucking _hear_ the smirk even after he turned the corner, and as such was slightly distracted and ran into a familiar face – one he was hoping he could avoid.

"Hey – look who it is." Butch drawled, smiling "What's up?"  
"I – uh." Francis stammered, unable to think of anything clever "N-Nothing. You?"  
"Need a smoke." He said, shrugging "Join me?"  
"I think… no I gotta go-"  
"C'mon." Butch muttered, his easy grin gone and sounding a touch desperate "I haven't even seen you in like a week. You're already late."  
"No I-"  
"_Francis_." Butch grabbed his coat sleeve as the hustler tried to maneuver past, no longer hiding his desperation "C'mon man. It's _me_. This is the most I've seen of you in a week. I know you're busy but this is getting a little ridiculous."  
"I'm – I've gotta go."  
"Ten minutes."  
"No Butch I-"  
"_Please_." He half whined, still clinging to him (though Francis wouldn't meet his eyes) "At least give me an excuse. C'mon. Somethin' I'll believe."

It was a simple thing to ask. This was the man who believed in ghosts and goblins and cursed paper fortunetellers. Francis could have told him anything at all and he could have let it go. But such was a loaded request. Unable to lie, and certainly unable to tell the truth, Francis couldn't really tell him anything. Sure, if he had been able to think he could have attempted an obvious lie. Butch would have accepted it. But as it was he just couldn't think – not past the accusation, anyway. The hustler just couldn't force himself to look at Butch at all though he felt the brown eyes on him, searching for something, _anything_ to indicated it was alright and he'd be back soon.

But he couldn't lie. He couldn't promise him that. And as the seconds ticked by Butch tightened his grip, waiting and watching. And Francis felt worse and worse for it. Though he wanted nothing more than to tell him, to beg for forgiveness and ask for his help he couldn't drag the poor guy down with him. As much grave-digging as he liked to do, Butch didn't need to be pushed six feet under by a stupid mistake. So he made the decision to push him off, to save at least one of them. He'd save his own skin soon. He just needed time to _think_.

"I'm sorry." Francis said finally, detaching himself, "I cant."

Before Butch could say any more the hustler turned tail and fled, disappearing into the hallways. He watched him go, unsure what to do or feel or think for a few minutes. Butch only remembered his original plan when a door opened somewhere down the hall. He too turned and left the area, heading outside while he fished for a smoke. He had a lot to think about.

O/O

Francis hadn't gone to class. Instead, he'd fled to the rooftop and sat down and thought for a while. When that didn't work, he distracted himself with work – making calls and placing orders. He almost had a run in with Mundy and his crew, but they caught sight of him and slowly backed down the stairwell before anything could happen. It was a good move on their part – he rapidly switched between upset and spitting mad more times than he could count. He sat through two periods, just watching the sky, his mind working desperately to grasp any idea more than five minutes. All the ideas he held onto, however, involved Butch and how upset they both were, so he had no choice to let them go.

When the lunch bell rang he staggered to his feet and stumbled down the stairs like a drunk or someone heading to the electric chair. Randal fucking _beamed_ at him when he turned the corner, making the bile rise in his throat. In some attempt to not look so defeated Francis stood straight and put his fists in his pockets, taking a breath and staring him down, looking bored.

"Having a rough day?"  
"Shut up."

Randal, thankfully, found his slip up hilarious and snickered, wringing his hands. He actually fucking _waited_ for the hustler to open the door for him, then strolled in like he was some god damned sultan, sauntering right up to the head of the line. Francis already knew where this was going, and dragged his feet to the demanding little snitch, who found a spot in line and glared hard at it and the kid who occupied it until the hustler showed up.

"I want to stand there." Randal said, crossing his arms over his chest, pointing to where a small, vulnerable, half frightened, half confused freshman stood.  
"What?" the younger practically squeaked, looking between the two upper classmen who suddenly decided to interrogate him.  
"You're in my spot, freshy." The snitch sneered. He smacked the hustler's arm and pointed "Move him."

Rolling his eyes at the inane request, Hustler squared himself up and looked big and menacing. The kid sort of shrunk into himself and smiled sheepishly. Francis continued to stare, trying to figure out how to do this gracefully and without ruining his reputation one way or another. When the kid started to look at him more confused than upset, Francis shrugged and decided to take the easy route and remember to pay him back later. He had noticed before another boy that looked about the same age staring at the silent exchange, and a quick glance over in that direction confirmed that the boy was invested in this kid's safety (he was waving his arms frantically and trying to get him to _just move already_). So Francis looked deliberately toward the panicking freshman, then back to the kid he was supposed to forcibly remove from the line for Randal. Then he repeated the action, nudging his head toward the boy a few paces back. Lucky for him, the victim of Randal's wrath wasn't stupid, so he got the hint removed himself, trotting over and back-cutting his friend (who looked a lot more relieved).

Unfortunately for the hustler, however, Randal looked displeased with his performance. The hustler shrugged, clearly unable to do anything about it now, and begrudgingly stood beside the weasel as he got his food. He seemed a little less aggravated when Francis cleared the table he wanted to sit at with a grunt and a wave of his hand, but he still looked less than thrilled.

Forced to sit down with Randal, the hustler plopped into his seat and tried not to look at him eating. His choice in food was gross (who the hell actually got the fish tacos anymore?) and the way he ate was equally repulsive – all made worse by the fact he was actually pretty fucking hungry (though he was quickly losing his appetite). Randal wouldn't have let him get up and get food anyhow – lest he be jumped or pranked while the hustler was gone. But he seemed to be thinking something over, casting glances at the bored (and slightly sick) looking hustler.

Francis leaned forward on his arms and crossed them in front of him, resting his head on his folded arms so he looked at the table. He could still hear the half-open mouthed chewing and it made him sort of nauseous. But he considered himself lucky. So far Randal had only asked stupid little things. He lifted his head and sighed, exasperated. He really was just watching a child. He could deal with it if he thought of it like that. So the hustler blinked slowly, calming himself, rearranging his thoughts.

"I _saw_ that…" Randal hissed, his face twisting into a scowl.  
"Saw what?"  
"Allow me to remind you you're not in any position to piss me off." Randal seethed.  
"What did I _do_?"  
"You know what you did!" the snitch screeched quietly, his face an ugly red.  
"What are you even talking about-"  
"Don't get all belligerent with me!" He snapped. Then he drew back, fishing in his pocket, smiling coolly "Do I have to remind you who's in charge?"  
"What did I even do? I just put my fucking head down-"

This time Randal cut Francis off it wasn't verbal. The hustler cut himself off, his eyes glued to the thin black box in sweaty palms. He looked between the smirking face and twitching fingers holding the box, his thumb dangling precariously close to the one button that he knew would end him. Francis shook his head, his mouth dry, his face burning and feeling drained of blood all at once. Randal just smiled.

"Maybe a demonstration is in order." He said, stroking the front of the tape recorder almost lovingly, his fingers playing over the speakers, his thumb resting on the hair trigger.  
"You wouldn't."  
"Oh wouldn't I?"  
"Randal-"  
"It's just one little button."  
"Don't-"  
"I just need to press down right here."  
"_Please_-!"

Randal paused for that moment, eyeing him, savoring it, tricking Francis into thinking that maybe, just maybe there was s sliver of human decency in him. But then he _pressed the button_, and out from that tape played a long, low note – not very loud, but loud enough to attract attention. Though, perhaps in hindsight what attracted attention was the way the normally composed upright and honorable salesman dove across the table, desperately reaching for the damned little black box. Randal barely cared, even let his monstrous hand close over it and his hand, muffling the speaker though the tape had already been turned off. It didn't matter what he did. Randal knew he had him exactly where he wanted him now. In an instant the picture changed. The hustler could no longer pretend he was just being bent to a childish whim. He was actually helpless here.

He retreated as slowly and carefully as he could, hoping to preserve his dignity. He couldn't. He heard a couple of people gasp and another couple laughing nervously. The whole cafeteria seemed to have gone silent, but it was mostly in his head. People barely noticed, and those who did didn't care. Sufficiently humiliated, the hustler bowed his head and tried not to move. Sufficiently satisfied, Randal made himself comfortable and put the tape recorder away.

"Are you going to behave?" He asked, solemn and haughty as if he were asking a child.  
"Yes."  
"Good."

With a triumphant little smile, Randal benevolently offered a section of his lunch. Francis took it, collapsing in on himself, eating with his head down.

O/O

"So wait." Gus said, holding his hand up. "Hustler is working for Randal now?"

It had been the fifth time this had been explained to the soon-to-be solider, but he still seemed not to be processing it. It wasn't his fault – the whole situation was incredibly complex and shady as all hell. No one really knew what was going on. They just knew the results. And those were both hidden and incredibly obvious, like a battlefield not yet cleared. Everyone was on edge. This knew situation was something no one had ever planned for, and they were all scrambling, watching their step, taking care. Gus had been out a week and a half on leave, and so stumbled in to this world he thought was safe, and was blind sighted. Hustler had casually robbed him that morning, using a fixed deck to con him out of a good chunk of cash.

No one noticed the little instances like that until they all pooled together, compared. Each person Hustler had ripped off thought maybe he was having an off day and they let it go. He was the honest one, the trustworthy, loyal, _good_ businessman. But a week straight of conning meant he was up to his old tricks again, and no one could figure out why he was so hell bent on being a jerk like he was in fourth grade.

With one flaw noticed everyone started seeing more. He stooped now. He looked hollow. Didn't say please or thank you. Sneered. His stock was thinning and his prices were jacked up. The big one was the new company he seemed to keep – namely Randal. It seemed they were joined at the hip, suddenly. Many from Third Street Elementary were frightened by this realization. They remembered all too well what had happened with Menlo.

"Well, sorta." Vince tried (this time) "No one really knows what happened. It's just bizarre. This just kind of happened overnight. No one knows anything."  
"That is hardly a surprise." Gretchen interjected, tapping on Galileo, who simply shook his head and shrugged before attempting another search "The two largest sources of information are now teamed up and exclusively links for their benefit."  
"Is it their benefit though?" Spinelli pondered, picking at the side of the school "Or just to screw us all over?"  
"This sounds confusing. I'm going to be so lost now that I missed the beginning." Gus groaned, looking around at his friends. He let the silence last a beat before he asked what everyone else seemed to be dodging. "How's everything else?"

The gang quieted. Everyone in school had noticed a power shift, but no one knew who or what initiated it. Like a sleeper cell suddenly activated. But no one was talking. No one knew. But that was to be expected. The two largest sources of information (aside from the Ashley's – and they charged a pretty penny even before this whole incident) were now conjoined and clammed up. Sure people had their theories, but none were all that plausible. On top of that no one really looked into it. They were all wary, maybe even kinda freaked, but they thought better to shut up and let it blow over than aggravate the already out of character building.

"No one's talkin', huh?" Gus asked, answering his own question.  
"It isn't that. Just no one seems to know." TJ said suddenly, lifting his head up from the spot he'd been staring at. "But maybe not all sources are censored."  
"Whatcha getting' at Teej?"  
"Think about it guys. Who do you go to to find out about things no one else seems to know?"  
"Tabloids?"  
"The Encyclopedia?"  
"Internet?"  
"No no no. That's all literal or mainstream. I'm talking underground."  
"… Internet tabloids?"  
"In our school."  
"Butch!"  
"Bingo."

O/O

Butch did not look well. In fact he looked downright _terrible_ when TJ and his gang found him. He was smoking (heavily), hiding in shadows, his eyes looking directly down at the cracks in the asphalt. One leg kept him upright, the other bent at the knee, his boot flat against the wall. He was hugging himself, muttering, still wearing his heavier jacket despite the slightly warmer weather. TJ almost didn't signal the others he looked so bad – but Spinelli poked her head around the corner and spotted the plume of smoke and marched right on in, ever the concerned, tactless investigator.

TJ followed close behind, catching Spin's shoulder before she could start demanding answers. The others trickled in behind them, Mikey and Gus blocking the mouth of the alley discretely. TJ put himself in front and cleared his throat a couple of times to get Butch's attention. Nothing worked at first, but just before the punch master herself could roll up her sleeve Butch went to change his cigarette and looked up, taking note of the six in the alley, watching him.

"Uh… hi?"  
"Hey there Butch." TJ started amicably "I was wonderin' if we could talk."  
"We?" He asked (eyeing the backup cautiously), but managed to keep it halfheartedly joking. "I paid you back the lunch money you lent me last week. Don't gotta get a gang up on me."  
"No no, I know. We're good. I just wanted to ask if uh… if you knew 'bout-"  
"Oh for cripes sakes-" Spinelli snapped and broke from TJ's hold, stamping her foot. "You and HK are pretty good pals so tell us why he's all of a sudden such a goddamn scumbag!"

TJ mentally slapped himself in the forehead. There was a reason Spinelli was no longer allowed to do negotiations that involved kids around her age group – nothing personal against her, but her temper had gotten a lot worse and she spoke better with ten fingers than she did with words. The others behind him seemed to flinch or sigh with lost opportunity as well. Already Butch had changed his demeanor from withdrawn and introspective to setting up iron walls of defensiveness. He'd pushed off the wall and fixed a scowl on his face, spitting the butt of the cig on the floor and grinding it out with the toe of his boot. He cross his arms over his chest and faced them all head on, squaring his shoulders and trying to look intimidating. No one was falling for it (especially not Spinelli, who was going to punch him if he didn't start talkin'), but they knew this was now going to be harder.

Unfortunately, TJ underestimated the reaction the rest of his crew would take. Seeing Butch so defensive made _them_ defensive – which was understandable, but five against one wasn't a fair fight, and before TJ could do anything they all ganged up on Butch verbally (accusing him of knowing what was up, outlining their problems, the instances where Hustler had ripped them off), and Butch spat back at them like a smoky cobra, unwilling to take even an ounce of bullshit. He stood his ground well, unrelenting, faltering but standing tall, insisting on one thing.

"I told you once I'm gonna tell you all again, so listen up – I don't know a goddamn thing now l_eave me alone!_"

They way he phrased it became less and less pleasant, and his voice grew louder and louder, sounding the alarm. People were starting to notice the shadow kid becoming hysterical. TJ wasn't sure if they were coming out of concern of for the show, but he found his voice and shut up his half of the argument as quickly as he could manage, shooing them out. They left after some convincing (Spinelli had to be carried out by Mikey, who to his credit had no real malice directed at the storyteller except to lament his condition at the present time) but TJ lagged behind. He got the drama vultures to go away, then turned on Butch and looked him over. He still stood tall, still pissy, but still sort of broken, smoking now that he had a minute to fetch a cigarette without losing ground on argument. He seemed a little more chilled out with his territory reestablished, but TJ was still lurking, and he couldn't just leave. Not yet. He just had to be _sure_.

"M'sorry Butch." He began, ignoring the dirty look "It's been kinda crazy. We're a little desperate. You know what's going on. We're tryin to figure out the details, our usual thing, ya know?"  
"Mmph."  
"Listen, I know I'm beatin' a dead horse here but are you totally sure you didn't hear anything? Even a word from Francis or something?"

Butch looked at him. It was that kind of look that clearly stated 'are you fucking kidding me', and dared him to push it. TJ knew better, waited it out, just standing still and hoping, maybe, he heard a word. Eventually Butch dropped it. He fished out a cigarette, lit it, and took a heavy first drag. He blew smoke in TJ's direction, but the red-capped natural-born leader just stood, waiting, watching. Butch's shoulder dropped and he exhaled a clean lungful, relenting only enough to leave TJ with a few parting words before turning and melting into the darkness:

"Fuck off, TJ."

Butch just sounded upset. Sad. Exhausted. TJ was on his own for this one.

O/O

The clock, replaced after being hurled against the wall in rage about a week ago, switched from one fifty nine to two am on the dot. Butch had just watched an entire hour pass by, taking note of every fluid change from number to number. He might have been upset about it – another hour of his life just gone like nothing that he could never get back (especially if he kept smoking). But it was too early (late) for this kind of introspection (or thinking at all). But then again, Butch hadn't slept. The ideas, then, canceled each other out. So he settled in to watch another hour pass.

Inevitably, however (he had been trying to avoid it for the past hour and two minutes), he did start to think. His mind broke free from the collar and chain he'd try to contain it in.

The first thing he thought of was how time had crawled and sprinted at the same time. It felt like it had been years since he's seen Francis, but it also seemed like he'd just watched him turn the corner and leave him alone in the hallway. Both ideas were soon overshadowed with thoughts of said hustler, who had been missing for quite some time. It came in trickles, then in torrents, then in giant waterfalls of thought, jumbled and unprotected. Mannerisms and physical traits and memories a plenty. None of it made any sense until Butch remembered that he had no recent ones or that he was beginning to forget the exact pitch when he said a certain word or the way a certain part of him felt pressed up to him, skin to skin. It really didn't start to hurt until he remembered that this was the man he was supposed to be in love with. It might have been true that absence made the heart grow fonder for some people, Butch though, but it just made him hurt a whole hell of a lot.

In short, Butch was lonely.

Though it was kind of a downer to think about (not to mention a less than flattering reflection of his lack of a social life), with him not seeing Francis he had had little contact with the outside world. Maybe he was just that antisocial, or maybe people sensed his bad mood, but whatever it was people didn't even bother to come to him for stories. That little run in with TJ and his crew was the most he'd talked to anyone who did have the capacity to flunk him in days. He kind of hoped everything would be better after a few days, but even when that proved not to be the case he sort of hung onto that notion that Fran would come back to him. Sort of like a knight in shining armor on a white horse holding the head of a great and terrible enemy, but pulling up to him in his fucking Beamer and mocking him for having to walk home would have been just as good.

It would never happen though. Stupid admissions of longing (or love, God forbid), were confined to iconic eighties movies and romantic comedies. They were all cheesy anyway. Butch hated that fluffy stupid crap. It was such a cop out. First there's this whole totally fake argument and the guy is so clearly wrong that it's _painful_ to watch and then there's this stupid split screen or back and forth editing showing each half being all sad without the other and then there's this really cheesy moment of revelation where suddenly is like the seventh level of hell to be without that person and they drop _everything_ they have to go tell that person they need them _right the fuck now_ and then happy ending. That was all bullshit. It always was. No one did that – not ever. Maybe once or twice, but even then it probably didn't work.

But he kind of would have really appreciated a _call_ or something.

Butch grunted and made himself get up fish through his coat pockets for a smoke. He knew his mother didn't like him doing it in the house, but he'd make it up to her later. He just couldn't force himself to go outside. He took a drag and debated on doing any number of things – going on a run, channel surfing, doing the assignments he'd been ignoring. But he just smoked and stared at the far wall, watching his window. He recalled something from any number of romance drivel about windows and pebbles and smiled a little at the stupidity of it. he turned his attention back to the wall and blanked out, letting his mind tread along the short leash he allowed. He wasn't sure how long he had been sitting there in the dark with a butt in his mouth half a moment from sleeping before tapping drew his attention to his window. He had thought maybe the gutter was leaking again or there was a raccoon or something – but though the figure outside was grey and had dark-rimmed eyes, it wasn't exactly a furry little critter looking for scraps.

Never mind about the call and dissing the late eighties romantic comedies. This worked. This was _great_ actually.

He might have though himself desperate, the way he rocketed off his couchbed and stumbled toward the window, groping for the ledge and bit of coat fabric that hang over it. He really would have, had he been watching someone else. But in that moment of doing he just felt this strange swelling of guilty pleasure, especially when his fingers grasped the rough outer fabric and held it tight in his grip. Butch wasn't able to form words he was so ecstatic – hell, he was practically shaking. Francis, by contrast, smiled (if not tiredly) and gripped him hard, looking for a pulse, convincing himself that the clearly living boy in front of him was actually alive and well.

"Hey Butch."  
"Jesus Christ Fran-" Butch blurted, his voice trembling with nerves or something like it "Holy shit man. I'm- God, it's been like-"  
"I know." He inhaled, twisting his arm to grasp Butch's bare wrist. "I know. I'm sorry. Can… can I come in?"  
"Yes! Hell yeah. Come right on in I'll just step back and you can just jump right down."  
"I'm too big. Go around and open your door."  
"Squeeze in."  
"Butch-"  
"Fine, fine, I'm going. God, Fran I-"  
"Quickly."

Butch didn't let go right away, but to his credit neither did Francis. They sort of stared awkwardly for a moment, but then the Hustler took back his arm and rose with a grunt. Butch all but rocketed up the stairs, falling to all fours toward the tops steps and clamoring for the doorknob. He calmed himself and his breathing (he was still shaking) so as not to disturb anyone sleeping upstairs – but to do so was asking a lot. He had never been so excited to see someone before, and he had resolved by the time he padded though his kitchen to tackle the bastard to the floor and become a fucking leech until sunrise.

When he did open the door, however, he didn't quite do what he planned. It was just so surreal to see him after just getting by with glances and peripherals that he was only really able to stare at him for a few minutes. The hustler shifted his feet, seemingly stripped of his confidence and usual charm, and the unusual picture he presented threw Butch off.

Rather, it put him back on track.

The calm lasted until they were both flat-footed on Butch's basement floor. Francis still hadn't said another word. He looked so tired and broken and not right that Butch remembered that he wasn't some lovesick teen (though he kind of sort of was), and he was much, much more complex than a two-dimensional romantic comedy character. Oh and he could be a hell of a lot more spitfire than some spunky female lead.

Butch punched Francis in the chest. The taller male made no move aside from shutting his eyes for a moment and grunting. He didn't even bother to lift his hand and inspect the wound. So he did it again. And then once more in the shoulder to get his point across. Finally the haggard hustler reached and gingerly touched the injured spot. Much to Butch's fury, however, he didn't react aside from looking neutral (if not ever so slightly upset) and keeping his eyes on him. He stooped, slumped, like the very life had been fucking sucked out of him and it pissed Butch off to no end that he had changed into this bullshit version of _his_ hustler that he was fit to bursting, clenching his teeth and balling his fists for another hit. He exploded into a quiet, harsh whisper when the bastard had the balls to talk first.

"Butch I-"  
"No you shut up I'm talking right now. You think coming back after two goddamn weeks is just going to smooth everything over? Where the fuck have you been? What the fuck have you been _doing_ you look like you got dragged through a goddamn graveyard. Fucking hell man, everyone's comin knocking down my door- even Detwiler's tryin' to figure out what the hell has happened to you and you just fucking _know_ that's when shit's got bad. And why do I have to find out from Captain Goodie fucking Two-shoes and his merry band of good deed doers before I hear a fucking _word_ out of your mouth? I know we're not exactly best friends but _Ch__rist_ Francis you've gotta give me something to work with here!"

Butch seemed to slump then, his face half hidden by his hand and hair. Francis reached out and pushed some of it out of the way, murmuring aloud that Butch really needed a haircut, cupping his face carefully. The one unoccupied brown eye looked up at him, tired and conflicted, looking for an answer that Francis couldn't force himself to give. The hustler sighed, dejected, and attempted to remove his hand. But Butch grabbed it in both hands before it fell back to his side, gripping his wrist almost desperately. His demeanor had changed again, all the rage having drained out of him with his wild gesticulations and angry spitting. Now he simply looked as empty as Francis had felt before he walked over.

"You uh… y-you gotta be somewhere?" He asked quietly, his thumbs over Francis' pulse point.  
"No."  
"You sure?"  
"I'd rather be here than anywhere else."

The quiet admission startled them both, though it affected Butch more physically. He turned pinkish and looked directly at the floor, then back up at him. The hustler had never felt so much pity and adoration as he did for that pathetic look and the man who offered it up.

So Francis smiled a small, hopeful smile and slid his arms up and around Butch's shoulders, cradling his head. He leaned in, and Butch did the same. For the first time in weeks they kissed, and it was careful as their first voluntary one. That changed quickly, though, in favor of roaming hands and mouths, in favor of rising heat and discarded coats and nightshirts. Each step quickly yielded to the next, in favor of pursuing the heat, the escape from thought they both needed, until they could take no more and found themselves spent and panting on the floor of the basement.

O/O

Francis woke up first – which was usual. He was wired to be up earlier than most children his age. Even after days of not sleeping well and being thoroughly distracted most of last night he was awake and inhaling sharply, stretching his muscles. He half expected to be in his own bed, debating on getting up now or in ten minutes. He wondered if he'd left the coffee pot on and set it for the morning and then remembered he did, but upon shifting he realized he was very sore and stung and cold on top of it. It was then he realized he wasn't in bed, but on a carpet. A familiar carpet, beside a familiar sleeping body.

Oh.

It was coming back to him now. He'd finally _finally_ gotten a night to himself where he wasn't questioning faking his own death on the drive home. And he had gotten home. But then he left there, and walked, just to clear his head. He usually ended up at Kelso's or in Hustler HQ when he did that, but somehow he let himself go all the way to Butch's house. He was surprised no one pulled him over – he was tired and swaying, thinking hard. Once or twice he caught himself in the middle of the damn road just swerving. Once he got to Butch's house he knew instinctively where to go, tapping on the window. He wasn't sure why. If asked he would be willing to bet that Butch would want nothing to do with him. He was right at one point, But Butch had caved and accepted the only thing Francis had to offer.

They hadn't said another word that night, even in the throws of their rushed and frantic (for lack of a better word) fucking. Randal had not been mentioned once, but Francis knew Butch knew that much. He didn't feel like acknowledging it though, so he kept his mouth shut unless he was kissing or moaning or biting. Even with the darkness of the basement he could see the bruises and marks on the thinner boy. He hadn't thought about telling Butch what was going on. Why add more stress to this? He'd gone through hell being Randal's fucking pet and he just wanted an escape. He didn't need to think about anything when he was with Butch. It was just fucking. He seduced, banged, felt great while doing it and then got up to leave. No big de-

Oh.

Oh hell.

Francis hoisted himself up onto his palms and blinked in he dark, waiting for his eyes to focus. He stared hard at Butch watching him sleep. He looked around the room, at the strewn clothing and tipped over items. It looked like a strange motel (and he grimaced- he'd actually taken Butch to a motel once or twice hadn't he?) – not permanent, replaceable. Or it would have, if there wasn't so much of Butch in this one space – especially the small pocket under the blanket, breathing softly, oblivious to what Francis had done. He had no idea that the hustler had just invaded his home and bent him over and _took him_ without a damn word.

The only thing more jarring than the notion that he _was_ totally using Butch like they were in some cheap love affair was the greater, almost overpowering revelation that he didn't want to be.

No, the more he thought about it the worse he felt and the more he wanted to change. He didn't want to use Butch. He wanted to be nice. He tried to be – he did things for him and always made sure he was satisfied. He never kicked Butch out of bed or made him leave before sunrise. He never ignored his existence outside of the bedroom. And he had been gentle kind of, when he needed to be. And he had wanted to be soft and sweet sometimes – he even cuddled!

He could hardly believe it himself, but there it was.

Francis lowered himself back on top of Butch, pressing their bodies together. Butch's body had cooled some, and he'd begun to curl into a ball to conserve heat. The hustler covered it with his and part of the blanket Butch had dragged over in a moment of coherency before passing out. As if he had any dignity to protect with Francis fucking destroying it every time he pulled a stunt like this. He wrapped his arms around the other and held him, trying to feel as sorry as he could without actually saying it. He didn't feel very much – it was a defense mechanism he built up to deal with Randal. So it was sort of hollow and tinny, but he was sorry, and he kissed along Butch's shoulder and jaw to communicate that. God forbid he say it aloud and wake Butch up. He wouldn't be able to take that.

He didn't feel _bad_, per se. Just kind of dickish. It was a dick move. One that kept repeating itself. And it was pretty damn bad as far as dick moves went. It was up there. So Francis felt worse, but not terrible. Almost, but not quite. He was like that a lot lately. He owed Butch more than that. But he couldn't give him what he needed. For a moment he wondered why he cared so much, but he chalked it up to basic fucking human decency – such a thing was rare with Randal around. If it was anything more or less he didn't want to think about it. He had enough mental crises for today. It was still just morning. Still too early.

Carefully, he detached himself from Butch and got dressed.

Any illusions of slipping out unnoticed were shattered when he looked back at the sleeping Butch he left and was greeted with the awake version currently looking disoriented as he pulled his nightshirt back on. Butch blinked a few times and settled his gaze on the standing, half dressed hustler and decided the right thing to feel was some measure of pissed off.

"Running out, huh?" He muttered bitterly (which actually got Francis to physically flinch at the accusation).  
"I've gotta head out… pick up some stuff." Hustler mumbled, pulling on his coat. He really did – Randal was coming over later that afternoon to clean him out. "I've gotta get going before school."

Butch didn't say anything. He just sat and looked at his lap. Francis didn't bother to say anything else. He was still confused and upset by the sudden rationalization and subsequent filing it away for later. He kept almost thinking about it, but then he remembered not to do so. The silence stretched on and, feeling increasingly uncomfortable, Hustler decided now was better than later to make the escape from his escape. He almost said something, but decided against it, sliding past Butch toward the stairs. He was stopped by a snag on his coat, and Francis didn't need (or want to) turn to see what it was caught on.

"I'm not stupid, Francis." Butch said quietly, his hand holding the back of his coat loosely "I have eyes and ears and common sense, but I'm not a fucking psychic. I know what's going on, but not everything. Please, Fran. Just something to keep me from givin' up on you."

This was the point he had hoping to avoid. He couldn't give Butch anything – least of all this. An explanation was out of the question. He was in deep enough shit alone. To drag Butch down would be unforgivable and a damn shame. He couldn't do that to him. Not when the very root of the problem involved him and victimized him at the same time. Against his better wishes Francis turned and knelt beside him, trying not to look at the face he was almost certain would hold immeasurable amounts of disappointment. Instead he looked sort of past it, at his own hands, then Butch's hands, then he stitching pattern along the blanket.

"Just trust me." He blurted suddenly, perhaps stupidly, tacking on a quiet, pleading "Please. Can you?"  
"Yeah."

The simple acceptance had thrown him. It wasn't like he provided Butch with anything to actually latch onto. At most, an empty promise. So he looked at the other for clarification and was met with a sleepy, quiet gaze for a short period of time. Then he was gifted a small, lopsided smile.

"I mean… I'm not thrilled with you right now. And I should be asking a lot more questions. And your ass would be handed to you _so hard_ if I could think this early. But dude, I just bent over for you. Trusting you a little bit more isn't that far of a leap. No issue." He rubbed his eyes and lowered himself back onto the floor. "I probably wouldn't say it up front with sleep in my body but for now take it as you will and keep it in mind. S'not gonna change when I wake up. But I'll be angry, probably. A little."

And Francis, because he was swept up in the total normalcy (if not startlingly open emotion and thought process) of the situation, chose to ignore any guarded response and instead tease him.

"You're quite an elegant speaker when half awake"  
"Shut up." One of his eyes opened and he beckoned him back down "Kiss me before you go. And make it good. Dunno when I'm gonna see you again."

So he did, dropping to one knee, holding Butch's wrist in his hand and using his other hand to support Butch's back, lifting him to his level and kissing him as he was requested, glad to forget for a moment that anything existed outside this bedroom or even the heavy arms that draped over his shoulders.

* * *

**So yeah. Uhm. Sorry if you liked Randal. I don't hate him really. I just... I couldn't think of someone else to pin it on. Not creative enough I guess D:**

**Like I said up there, the second half of this will be up a hell of a lot sooner than the first half was. Two months is just ridiculous. But really, thanks for keeping an eye on this story and being so patient. **

**Thanks for reading!**


	31. Of Snitches and Screw Ups Part 2

**Oh wow, I'm sorry again guys. This took a lot longer than I anticipated. And it's not as long as the other one, either. But! More things happen! And the conclusion! So yay!**

**Thank you all again for the reviews and continued support. **  
**Let me just remind everyone I don't hate Randal. Because I sort of tear him up a bit. I'm sorry, you sneaky hunchback. You've made yourself an easy target for an uncreative person.**

**Enjoy! **

* * *

After a morning of coffee and running errands, Francis found himself with time to think. Randal had allowed him the morning off to prepare, and as always he was done early. So he had time to think. Being introspective was not one of his many talents, so it took a while, but somewhere along the line (between memories and coffee and wondering if maybe one cigarette would calm his nerves like Butch claimed they did), Francis decided he needed help.

So he went to the one source he was sure would never let him down.

Luring TJ from the rest of his friends was a damn chore, but he managed it, and pulled Detwiler aside to talk to him. He had a whole speech planned, complete with incentives and payments if only he just figure out what to do to make life not such a living hell.

What came out was a desperate, weak sounding: "Please-I need your help."

TJ had been accommodating, as he always was. He refused all of the hustler's offerings, requesting only that he visit Butch and keep tabs on him (something Francis totally agreed with) and for a day to think things over. Hustler instincts aside, he trusted TJ and his do-goodie pals.

But that didn't mean they had to know _everything_.

He knew TJ knew he was holding back. It was just they way he looked at him and paused, waiting a few seconds for HK to spill a little more before he started his return. The hustler knew that trick. Hell he monopolized it during connections. But he remained vague, watching his words, his gestures. HK kept his eyes on TJ and refused to look away, lest he be called out on his lie. Besides, the less he gave them, the better off he was. Or at least that was how he justified it. It was a damn good reason as far as he was concerned. If Randal even so much as suspected the hustler had sunk so low as to crawl to his most hated enemy, then the stunt he pulled playing it in the cafeteria was going to look like a slap on the wrist. It was almost as comforting as it was horrifying to know that no matter how low HK felt like he got, Randal would always been three flights below him.

Despite all of this he still felt heavy and ached in places. He wanted to write it off as not sleeping well and then exacerbating the problem by passing out on a floor the previous night, but he knew himself too well to blatantly lie. He'd realized what he'd put Butch through, and for that reason and that reason only did he give up. He could only entertain the ratfink for so long, and if he got bored… well, the hustler wanted to put an end to things before that point. Long before that point.

He just hoped Butch would forgive him – for any of this.

But now was no the time for thinking like that. He had to focus all of his energy towards the task at hand. And so he did, taking a breath, and turning the corner, waiting outside Randal's class to be the escort to his car, then to his home, where most of his livelihood would be fair game.

O/O

"Whompin' Bobula." Randal had said, rubbing his greasy hands together "I knew you had loads of new money, but who knew you had _old_ money to fall back on? Why aren't you hanging with the Ashley's? You'd fit in juuuust fine."

Francis hadn't answered. He'd barely even spoke since he'd given up the passenger seat of his car to the disgusting rat at the end of the school day. He didn't want to think about any of it. If he thought about it then he would crack and injure someone, and then he would be screwed either by the law (for murder) or at the hands of Randal himself and his cursed little tape recorder. He exhaled and got out of his car, shuffling to the front door while the anxious snitch fluttered around his front lawn, trampling his grass and plants and generally making an obnoxious asshole of himself until the ornate door was opened. Then Randal just breezed right on in like he owned the place, and proceeded to put his greasy paws all over everything. Francis took a breath to steady himself before following suit, making sure there wasn't too much damage done to property that wasn't even really his.

"Stay close." He muttered, knowing he'd be ignored.  
"Where's all the stuff I'm gonna get?"  
"The shop is this way." Randal ignored him (of course) instead picking up and manhandling centerpieces "Randal-"  
"Shut up, Hustler. Whatever happened to 'my house is your house', huh? A little decency towards your house guest would be greatly appreciated."

Sighing, Francis just let it go. He couldn't fight. He was too drained to do it, too tired. It was taking quite a bit not to crawl up the stairs and lock himself in his room. But he gave up enough, sitting on the stairs and putting his head in his hands. He'd wait. Just wait. He was in no hurry to give up his stock. He could take a small rest like this, right here. No one would ever know the difference. Randal wouldn't care.

Something was off.

Raising his head tentatively from his open palms, Francis finally _actually_ looked around his house for the first time since he entered it. He'd been breezing in and out lately, too concerned with himself and his failing to really notice anything particular. But there were clues everywhere now. Little things nudged out of place. Moved. But, thinking on it, it was really probably Randal's doing. Randal was what was throwing his senses off. It was because he let someone in he felt this odd presence. Like he wasn't alone. Francis remembered he wasn't – that Randal was here, nearby, picking through everything. He thought, maybe, he was imagining things.

"Oh my God-" came the sudden, horrified voice from the next room over "Oh my God – is that… is that _blood_?"

Francis shot up to his feet. No- no logically no it couldn't be. But he had to check anyway. He Blindly listened, as if the echo of the terrified voice would guide him. He found it by dumb luck, nearly crashing into Randal as he backed away from the spill. He had to admit it_ looked_ an awful lot like blood. Red and dark and thick, seeping into the fibers of carpet and pooling on the hardwood beside it. But no, it wasn't. He was almost sure.

That didn't mean there was any less trouble.

"No. Fuck. No, Randal, get into the garage. Now." He sounded exasperated and somewhat terrified despite himself, grasping Randal's arm when usually he was loathe to touch any part of him. Randal did not approve.  
"But-hey!" Randal ripped his arm from the Hustler's grip "I'm not done yet!"

The sudden, bratty tantrum did little to stop Francis from trying to forcibly drag the fink to the garage so he could rob him blind. But, true to form, Randal fought him every step of the way. The hustler was so weak he couldn't even keep the determined weasel in his grip. They ended up knocking over an address book, which out of habit Francis stooped down to get. When he stood back up, however, Randal did not look the cocky, brash, know it all Hustler had been expecting. He looked pale. Frightened. And when he turned to glance over his shoulder at where the vacant, tiny eyes were staring he quickly figured out why.

Behind Francis, in the doorway, directly in Randal's line of vision was this haunting half-woman. Pale white and gaunt. Swathed in a long, flowing dress that was even more ashen than herself. She looked like a ghost, at most a shell, her eyes vacant and rimmed with black, a red-lipped mouth pursed underneath wild brown wisps of hair that stuck across her face. She swayed on bare feet, clutching a bottle in one hand, sloshing, its contents spilling out on the floor, thick and red like blood spatter. She stepped in them, unheeding of the cool splash or the footprints she was leaving or the pink she was staining the edge of her dress

She smiled, reaching out to them.

Randal ran screaming, pushing Francis ahead of him as a diversion as he made his hasty escape. The woman seemed not to notice, and approached the remaining male in the household, tottering dangerously. Ever the dutiful son, Francis mimed reaching over to help her, but stayed put. He owed her the slightest courtesy of catching her before she actually spilled blood on the floor, if only for scaring away his tormenter for the moment. Francis knew he'd be back, but his mind was elsewhere at the moment. Slowly he turned to face her, as if expecting something. Predictably, he received nothing. But he tried anyway. He owed her that much, and if she didn't want it – then at the very least he owed himself.

"Mom, why are you even home?"  
"I'm working boy. Please don't bother me."  
"Dad's looking for you."  
"Who?"  
"Dad – David Latner." She was starting to move now, and he kept careful eyes on her "He called for you a few days ago."  
"Oh what a charming man he used to be… Phone calls and letters and beautiful flowers."  
"Please give me the bottle mom."

She seemed not to hear him and made to teeter past his still form. He was taller than her now, especially barefoot, but he felt small. He almost didn't reach out for it. But inevitably he always would. With both hands Francis carefully grasped the bottle and waited. She stopped in her tracks and blinked, looking at him. She squinted, trying to get a better picture. He held it by the neck with both hands, trying not to shake. He hadn't been this close to her in years – physically or metaphorically. But she let go and patted his head.

"Be a good boy now." She cooed, voice absent of all matronly warmth.

She left him in the foyer with the wine bottle. He left her when the sink water ran, knowing already she was washing her hands of him.

O/O

Lunch detentions were the worst.

TJ slumped against the wall, fed up with hunching over on the prison tables the faculty deemed worth enough to house the kids they had to deal with. He shrugged. No skin off his nose. The only real problem he had with 'em were during detention- otherwise his pals were around to distract him. Shaking his head, he drew his legs up to his chest. He could deal with this. There were benefits for lunch detention; he just had to think of them.

Nothing came to mind right away.

The boy snorted and fell over onto his side, poking the dots and speckles in the linoleum. He contemplated counting them, but that would just be beyond sad. Sitting up and adjusting his hat, TJ figured that, if anything, the only luxury detention afforded him was that of quiet, peaceful, internal thought. The teachers didn't nearly care as much as they did back in Third Street School, so he was left alone to, well, think. Maybe do homework, but mostly think.

It bothered the hell out of him.

TJ scrambled back up onto his seat and slumped forward, his head resting on his folded arms. Well, with all this time to think, what could he think _about_? What required thought that wasn't schoolwork? There were no major upsets in the school rankings. King Bob had no major crises that needed his expert advice, even after he somewhat shaky ascension to the throne. No problems with his pals or his rivals. So what could he think about for the next half an hour?

Then he remembered the task he had been assigned a day or so ago, and he winced. This… this was going to be a tough one to figure out. Especially alone. So he looked at the facts first, going so far as to pull out pencil and paper to help track his though process (something he'd picked up from Gretchen, of all things).

One: Hustler was in trouble and he needed help.  
Two: Butch was also suffering.  
Three: Randal was involved (though that was hardly surprising).

That was about it. HK had been incredibly vague and dodgy, and though he'd given TJ the okay to involve his friends, he wasn't sure to what extent or to what end. Hustler had hot-footed it out of there to tend to Randal right after TJ had assured him he'd do whatever he could to help.

That brought TJ to the first part of the problem: Why was Hustler acting the lap dog? What could possibly degrade him to the point of serving the infamous weasel? There had to be some outside reason he was missing. There was no way, absolutely no way in hell HK would reduce himself to that without probable cause. There had to be something big. Big like… blackmail. Of course. Blackmail. Specific blackmail. Probably something on him and Butch. So why wasn't Butch serving Randal? Because he had nothing to offer? No, Randal could have always found a way to use someone. It was probably because Butch had no idea – which made sense if TJ factored in Butch's sudden disconnect from the hustler.

TJ felt impossibly worse with that piece of information puzzled out. The guy was probably a wreck, trying to keep both himself and Butch out of the spotlight. Then again, that distance and the willingness to do anything to keep the worst from happening was probably ruining them more than admission would.

That's probably why Butch was so messed up too. In the short time they'd been friends, they've gotten real close. Closer than just friends. Friends with benefits, as Butch put it. It was… weird to think about. Thinking about it now, they must seem like the most distant pair ever. Hell, he was surprised to find to they even bothered to find out the other existed. He was sure they had no idea of each other's presence on the school grounds. But, there they were. Together as… together could be. Hey, if they were sucking face in the mirror hall, what else could they be doing behind closed doors? It would take someone with know how, with some inside info to see the soft looks they gave each other.

So he wasn't sure – like it wasn't official or anything. But TJ knew. TJ knew a lot of things before they happened, and to him it was sort of obvious the two of them had a thing a little more intimate than a FWB going on. It was almost scary, how they looked at each other sometimes. It was like they were head over heels. But, every time they were within a three feet of each other the whole atmosphere changed. Like the sun coming out, everything warmed up and felt better. It was as plain as the smiles on their faces when they talked. Hell, no one else would mistake the little looks and grins and casual touches for something more than little friendly gestures. But TJ had this… feeling. His gut was telling him that they were pretty much as solid as concrete. They had to be.

They were quite the pair. Apart they were like opposite sides of the spectrum. Butch was all talk and lies. HK was all business and facts. Butch was like a shadow, there and gone but always around somewhere. HK was like a building, always right where you left it and doing its job. Together, though... It was weird. TJ couldn't think of any right way to explain it except they brought the human out in each other. Butch seemed like a figment of the imagination and HK seemed like a robot. They faded into the background until they were necessary, but when they were together they laughed and palled around like normal kids. At most, they would lose something so like a classic love story it was almost scary. At least, they were on the edge of losing a true blue genuine friendship.

TJ sat up and arched his back, stretching his arms above his head. So, TJ was faced with a true problem. Two people, two males who really may actually have something that wasn't a stupid high school romance who were on the brink of loosing it because something or someone (presumably Randal) was tearing it apart and therefore tearing them apart. Butch had been reduced to anger and angst and would barely talk anymore except to shout and exhale clouds of smoke. Hustler had been reduced into a shell and was actually _begging_ for help at this point, even if his reputation was on the line. And TJ had voluntarily stuck himself in the middle of it.

This sucked.

But, he couldn't just let this fall apart. How would he like it if someone came to him for help then was left high and dry? He had to come up with a plan. Something… sneaky. Devious. Effective and efficient. Something like that would require all his friends to help, of course. But what? How could he use his resources to help the downtrodden Hustler and Butch? What could he do to get the upper hand?

TJ's head flopped onto the table, the thud echoing in the cafeteria.

This was harder than he thought. This right here was some kind of serious. He wasn't just trying to overturn a policy or break out of detention, here. This involved _people_. People that could be very hurt or even changed completely. He had to think of something that wouldn't throw off the natural order of things. Hell, he needed a plan to /restore/ the natural order. He needed his friends for this.

"They'd know what to do." TJ affirmed quietly to himself.  
"Who'd know what to do?"

TJ's head snapped up and lo and behold Mr. Dude standing in the doorway. After passing Teacher Training in the lower grades, Mr. Dude was suddenly bumped to High School Earth Sciences due to space issues. It suited him just fine, and it had been the best first day of school ever for TJ. Since they'd inhabited the same building they'd become thick as thieves again. People often mistook them for being related (not that either minded), and they worked together pretty well. Mr. Dude was glad to have someone to vouch for him with the non-Third Street alumni and TJ was content to have a sort of huge mancrush on the former prankster prince. Often it would be Mr. Dude to fetch TJ from detention a little bit earlier then he was supposed to be let out. So here he was once again. The young teacher wiggled his fingers in a brief hello. TJ chuckled and waved back.

"Hey there Mr. Dude."  
"Hey Teej. Surviving detention again?"  
"To the best of my ability."  
"So… who knows what to do?"

TJ took a breath and related the whole story, the trimmed down version. He told him about the Hustlers recent change, and how that resulted in Butch's turn, skimming over a few more important details on the paper in front of him (which really just looked like a jumbled mess by this time). The Dude, ever attentive, sat there and listened, nodding and asking a couple of questions. TJ tried hard not to let it slip they may have something more than just a fast friendship that was heading for rocky shores, but The Dude knew everything.

"So, that's what's up. I've gotta plan I think, but I need to talk to the guys… but what do you think?"  
"That depends on your plan."  
"Well-"  
"Keep it to a sentence so I'm not held liable. Vague if you can."  
"Eye for an eye?"

Even if the plan was sort of on the fly, it was totally worth everything Randal was putting them through. But Mr. Dude was shaking his head and looking distressed at said plan.

"No good?"  
"I'm sorry Teej." Mr. Dude said, shrugging "But I can't really encourage you to be doing something illegal. You're sixteen now. That stuff can't be passed off as 'cute' anymore."  
"Oh, yeah. Didn't think of it that way."  
"Mm. Look, talk to your friends. Maybe they have ideas."  
"You don't have any?"  
"I might – but even if I did I'm not allowed to say. I'm only allowed to meddle so much. Sorry man."  
"It's okay."  
"Getting old sucks."  
"S'why I plan not to for a long time."  
"Atta boy." Mr. Dude smiled and patted his shoulder and rose from he table. "Detention's over, by the way. Be good, do your homework, blah blah blah. Later."

TJ waved and hoisted himself up to his feet, thinking for a few minutes. He finally got himself to his feet, resolving to take Mr. Dude's advice and find his pals. If anything, Gretchen could at least point out the illegal ones.

O/O

"You're lucky I'm generous." Randal had growled "I could be playing this over the loudspeaker _right now_, you cheating fink. But I've got better plans for you."

It was a small blessing Randal thought his mother was a complex ruse. At least he didn't have to worry about that rumor hanging over his head as well. He didn't respond to any of his yelling, nor his vague implications of where they were going to end up or what he was going to do. In truth, Hustler was only half paying attention, still clinging to the memories of last night. He had gone straight to Butch's house and after stammering a hasty excuse to his mother he nearly tripped down the stairs in his haste to get to the male he'd been searching for. Before Butch could even question what the hell was going on, Francis had fallen into his lap and banded his arms around the thin middle and burying his head in the soft cloth over the sharp-edged belt, trying not to shake. He didn't speak the entire time, not until they were finished and some time after that, and even then he was abstract about it. Despite his earlier conviction he couldn't make himself confess to anything. Not yet. There was too much to say, and before too long Butch had fallen asleep under him anyway, taking in deep shallow breaths that were so simple he was bewitched by it, watching the rise and fall of his pale, bruised chest for far longer than he needed to.

But that was then, and as they approached wherever the hell Randal had suddenly become hell bent upon taking him, it was harder and harder to cling to the memories. They slipped from him like gasps, replaced with excited threats and idle chatter. Only now did Francis realize where they were, and he already knew it was bad news.

Precisely, they were only a mile or so southwest from the Hustler HQ. Though it made his skin crawl to be this close to his place of work with the snitch of all people, he knew that there was not where Randal wanted to go. Randal wanted the Back Alley, also known as the fight ring, also known as a rancid, half submerged basement where people paid to and bet on beating the hell out of other people. He would have asked how Randal knew about such an illegal place if he had not proudly announced it himself (he'd overheard a couple of bruisers while trying to spy on a completely different group for a completely different reason). Why he hadn't called the cops on them or tired to blackmail the whole group was not mentioned, but Francis knew. If you fucked up the arrangement they had going or broke the rules, they would find you- no questions asked, no mercy given.

It was the kind of place not many people acknowledged existed, but here it was, decked out with mining lights and throngs of people and thick cigar smoke, punctuated by the occasional shadow of some colossus and the splash of sewer water underfoot. Strangely enough, aside from the occasional Cuban cigar, the only crime anyone could be accused of here was assault and battery or gambling. No drugs, no drinking, no animals, no murder – all of that was against the rules. It was admirable to someone like HK- who had an honor code and a business code and ethics and morals enough for an entire company– to see how rigidly these people followed their own rules with such dedication. Randal, on the other hand, was just cocky, toting his prizefighter and griping how he couldn't get more money.

Hustler was given mid-level odds. Not too likely, but not too unlikely. Not an underdog nor the favorite. All these people roughly his size and shape give or take a few inches in height or width, angry slabs of concrete looking for cash and bragging rights. In some way he didn't belong, but the more he looked around, the more he felt like he could fit in if he just forgot there was anything else. Sort of like he did when he was with Butch, though he hated to make that comparison, considering how empty he felt here.

One-on-one brawls were tonight's venue. It was so easy to tack Randal's face onto one of the other fighters and replace his anger. He'd fought before. He went numb. Went through the motions as if her were taking inventory- careful but bored and aching somewhat by the time he was finished. He did fairly well, and the odds tipped in his favor by the third match. Not that he noticed. He glossed though a good amount of the fights numb and vacant. But not numb enough to miss the flash of silver and quick slice to his arm in the fifth match.

Francis didn't realize what had happened until he saw that blood, and he remembered even less afterwards. He thought he felt pain, but he wasn't sure where. He heard shouting, a woman's voice, felt a sudden crunch under his fist. There was blood on his arm and he felt his heart throb angrily. Small cut to his upper arm (not his wrist, he'd checked). Nonvital. He'd heal. They patched him up and disbanded the fight for illegal use of weaponry. Randal got his winnings. Blood money. HK was not doing well anymore.

But he got the night off.

O/O

He had tried going back home to lick his wounds, but that had gone just about as well as expected. His mother was still home. And she wasn't exactly a loving figure to help him heal. If anything she made his trauma worse. After two hours he kept finding knives on tables and in chairs and even one on his pillow. He fled to Butch's basement out of fear and longing, ignoring the knife on the table and the disjointed piano upstairs.

Though he knew the totally justified freak out awaited him, it was better that hell than this.

He'd listened patiently while Butch screamed and ranted and raved. He stood still when Butch punched him, then welcomed him right back with open arms. HK had stopped trying to explain himself (why he was bleeding) – he didn't expect one from Butch either (why he was sobbing and trying to hide it). It was hard enough _not_ to feel numb.

O/O

Menlo had mellowed out quite a bit since seventh grade. Much like Randal he had kept in contact with his former fellow secretary, and the two shared a bizarre, if not one-sided relationship. However, unlike Ms. Finster, who was the essence of evil (according to most of the student body) and therefore immortal, Ms. Lemon passed away two years into middle school. It had been a bad time for Menlo. And enough he took off work and school and withdrew into himself until TJ (ever the friend despite their not-as-close relationship) with the help of a few others (Randal, a guidance counselor, even Principle Prickly) got him to step outside again.

So Menlo changed a bit. Grew up. He was still a stickler for the rules and knew the school codes of conduct (all branches) by heart. He was the most efficient student in the school, and hyper organized to the point of being a frightening pod person. He still wore ties and slacks and a button-down and glasses, still had buck teeth and short hair, and still held onto his Wilmco Look-A-Head like it was a piece of his soul. Sometimes he was a bit obsessive about his filing system and still way to hard on himself if he screwed up. He rarely left the office or went outside and didn't really have all that many friends. But he had mellowed out a lot. He'd smile and chat people up and was generally pleasant when he wasn't stressed out – and even then he was apologetic about it once the storm had passed.

And as it stood now, Menlo was TJ's last and only hope.

He had seriously tried everything. He'd gone to his friends, petitioning them for advice, but their plans were either illogical, too expensive, took too long, or were too violent. Only after repeated badgering did they both apologize they couldn't help more and ask (perhaps a bit cynically) why they should when they were alternately being denied helpful info and constantly ripped off. But they had tried, and kept trying, and though their plans looked suspiciously good on paper TJ knew from experience they probably wouldn't pan out as well as he could have hoped. He'd consulted others then – people whom the parties affected knew (Fingers, the drama people who seemed to stalk Butch) but he came up with little to nothing to even begin forming a plan. He'd even gone against Mr. Dude's advice in desperation and tried stooping to Randal's level, digging for dirt – but that plan had failed spectacularly as well.

TJ had been this close to giving up, dragging his feet back to the battered hustler and begging for more time, another hint, _anything_ that could even push him in the right direction, when he came across something rather peculiar. He had been shuffling down one of the academic hallways, chewing his lip, rewording his plea and apology to be impossibly more sincere when he noticed Randal. But not the Randal he had been seeing lately. It was the usual content, smug and pleased looking Randal in the middle of one of his spiels, but one that was severely lacking in the hulking bodyguard department. Upon further inspection, he noticed that HK was nowhere to be seen. It was just Randal and (inclining his head around the bend in the hallway) an equally pleased looking Menlo.

They had parted long after TJ hit the bricks, skirting their location a silently as possible. He'd made a ruckus in Mr. Dude's class which, though highly uncharacteristic of him (earning strange looks from both the students and teacher), was inexcusable. Mr. Dude had sent him down to the Pricklys' office, which TJ promptly thanked him for (earning more bewildered looks and the silent demand for an explanation later from both his educator and friends). Now he sat, clutching the strange slip in his hand, shifting wildly in his seat like a child that could barely hold his bladder in check while Menlo, ever the professional, had excused himself to take a brief lunch.

Again, TJ found himself rehearsing. Normally he left Menlo out of things. Menlo had his neat and orderly world, and TJ had his haphazard, normal teenage boy one. Though they didn't mesh very well they were still on decent terms. Now, however, he needed the secretary boy's help desperately. Not for blackmail, not for elicit material of any sort, not even for some sort of clever trickery or ruse. He simply needed to talk to Menlo because he was the only person he'd ever seen Randal alone with that didn't make the ratfink look like he was in or going to be in some incredible pain.

Not a second before or after his scheduled return, Menlo walked in, adjusting his tie and checking his clock, then looking over his desk. Finally his eyes settled on TJ with some faint (but not total) surprise. TJ grinned back at him. He was a troublemaker, after all, and they had had some nice little chats before TJ was sent to the exasperated Prickly.

"Good afternoon TJ." Menlo greeted, ever cordial "I won't say I'm glad to see you – though I am surprised. Isn't this the timeslot you have with Mr. Dudikoff?"  
"Hey Menlo. You're right. It is. But I have something more important to deal with right now."  
"Is that a note that I should be seeing?"  
"Yes." TJ shoved it in his pocket. "But like I said this is more important."  
"TJ – I'd really like it if you gave me that note."  
"Menlo, please – this is really, really serious."  
"So is policy-"  
"_Menlo_."

For a moment, the office worker stared TJ down, his brows furrowed and angry. TJ held his ground, screwing up his most determined face to counter Menlo's excessive work ethic. It almost didn't work, and they almost had words (Menlo even opened his mouth to spout procedure and raised his finger), but TJ's charm won out in the end. With an exasperated little whine, Menlo gave in and sighed, waving TJ to come over to the desk.

"Alright, alright. What's so important that you need to see Principle Prickly for?" He asked, somewhat tired sounding, pulling out the necessary paperwork and a clipboard to write it all on.  
"Not Prickly." TJ stated, pointing at Menlo "You."  
"Me?" He stopped abruptly, looking up with wide eyes.  
"You."  
"Oh… well this is certainly a surprise."  
"Yeah I know. Weird right? Look, it's got a bit of back story so just sit tight and I'll let you in."

Though he was flustered, Menlo gulped and nodded, still gathering papers and shuffling them about to distract his hands. TJ sat on the edge of the desk, ignoring Menlo's look of contempt, and started telling him with the barest of details about what he was trying to do, slowly clueing him into the whole process of thought and logistics, the whole issue he was facing. Of course he used the most boring terms possible (and in the wrong way, if Menlo's confused look was any indication). But TJ thought he was doing a decent job, so he powered right on, gesturing with his hands in such a way that made him feel more comfortable, and made Menlo antsy.

"That's all very well and good TJ." Menlo said abruptly, cutting him off "But what does this have to do with me?"  
"Oh, well here's the thing. I need you to talk to Randal for me."  
"Why me?"  
"'Cause you're the only one who he talks to that he's not afraid of or pissed off at."  
"Oh Well I suppose that's as good a reason as any."  
"So you'll do it?"  
"Of course."  
"Great!" TJ slipped off the desk and clapped his hands together. "You're a real pal, Menlo."  
"One thing-"  
"Yeah?"  
"What am I talking to him about?"  
"… I didn't make any sense before, did I?"  
"Not very much, no." Menlo admitted, smiling sheepishly.  
"Ah hell. Oh well. I'll stick to simple playground talk then. Main thing is that I need you to talk to Randal 'cause Randal's kinda blackmailing Hustler and-"  
"He's _what_?" Menlo growled, his fist clenching around the clipboard he was holding  
"What?"  
"What did you _just_ say?"  
"Randal's blackmailing-"  
"I heard you!"

TJ stepped back a bit. The normally composed teen had shot to his feet and was pacing in tight lines, muttering to himself and clenching his teeth. TJ had never seen him this thrown off his game before. It looked like Menlo was only a few seconds from tearing out his hair and screaming. As it was he was yanking at his tie like he was trying to choke himself and smoothing his hair. This was bad. Menlo only preened excessively like this when he was going to snap and splinter.

"M-Menlo?" TJ tried.  
"That rat! That liar! That _jerk_!"  
"Uhm-"  
"He promised me! He told me those days were over! That'd he never do it again! He lied- _he lied to my face_. Do you understand that? I can't believe it! He promised me!"

Menlo continued to rant and pace and damn near foam at the mouth while TJ watched him, mouth agape. Well, of all the reactions he was expecting out of Menlo, this was not one of them. He almost felt bad for bringing it up, and he reflected for a moment he was doing a lot more harm that way lately. But, he rationalized it was for the great good and he would most certainly stand by his decision, even if the office worker was starting to scare him.

"I want in." Menlo snapped suddenly, his eyes fierce and dark "Whatever it is, I'll do it."  
"Great. I have a plan already."

O/O

Francis had been given vague instructions in order for his problems to be solved. Fair enough considering how dodgy his own information had been. Randal had told him to wait outside for him by his car, that he had important business he didn't want the hustler to go sticking his nose in. For lack of any way to argue against him, Francis agreed, sitting on his trunk, taking a long, hard look at how awful his life had turned out. As it turned out he had precious little time to reflect and feel terrible as moments later TJ came running up to him, out of breath and looking excited, telling him that he had everything figured out.

He might have dragged his feet some. It wasn't that he didn't trust TJ, just that he didn't really believe him. He knew Detwiler was good – really good – but this was bigger than the stunts he usually pulled. It would take a goddamn miracle to get him out of this grave and, not offense to TJ, but he didn't think that the red-capped prankster could pull this off, and even if he could not nearly as flawlessly as he usually did. Besides, getting his hopes up would only set him up for a greater fall later. He wasn't such a chump that he'd fall for it. Not again, anyway.

But his mind changed some once he came to the spot where he'd been told to go (seemed like all he ever did these days was follow orders). Outside, under a second-floor overpass and near a hardly used fire exit. Most people had gone home for the day, teachers included, so HK thought nothing of the emptiness. But he was very, very interested to hear voices.

At first it was nothing. Quite muttering, like someone having a conversation. The hustler wondered briefly if TJ had outsourced his problem, and he then wondered how many times hew as going to right Detwiler's neck for doing so. His violent thoughts were derailed when the voices got louder, one angrier, the other pleading. Hustler quieted himself, his footfalls, his whole person, and crept closer. He copied things Butch had taught him by proxy (which made his chest ache somewhat in memory), sliding along the filthy wall (smokes and ash – more memories to plague him). He shook his mind free of distractions (as tempting as they were), and peeked around the corner, surprised to see Menlo and Randal in an argument. Confused but interested and following orders as he had been told, he listened carefully, watching the scene play out.

"I can't believe you!"  
"Menlo-"  
"You lied to me. Right to my face, Randal! After everything we've been through, after all the shit I put up with and after everything I've done-"  
"I can-"  
"_No you cannot explain_!"

Menlo ranted for quite a while, but Francis stopped listening. He transitioned between quiet disbelief to shock to this strange, light feeling. Something in him, around him, was cracking. Falling off hunk by hunk with each of Menlo's screams and pointed fingers, with each of Randal's backpedals and stutters. He didn't even know what they were fighting over. But they were fighting, vehemently, in what looked to be a very intimate lovers quarrel. It could have been about anything really – something mundane, something (to borrow the tired word) scandalous, but he knew what it looked like. It looked incriminating. More than that, it looked like his way out.

He whipped out his phone, set record, and watched the rest of the fight, hidden behind a pillar scrawled with foul words and stained with cigarette burns.

After some time, Menlo left, his face red, mouth screwed up in anger, carrying a tape recorder which he promptly dropped in the mouth of the alley and stepped on until it was nothing but rubble. He shot a glare back at Randal that the hustler hoped had killed him with all the millions of daggers it held, but there was no such luck. Randal let Menlo go, but right after he came running up, kneeling down to inspect his ruined device.

"Well well. What do we have here?" The hustler said suddenly, making the snitch twitch violently, his eyes snapping up.

He leaned against the wall in broad daylight, arms crossed, one leg out as support and the other bent at the knee. He suddenly looked better, alive, possessing of a spine and that cocksure knowledge of the next several moves both parties were going to make. In that moment, Randal knew he had nothing left. Not that he wouldn't try to act like he wasn't high and dry, but the icy, sickening feeling of defeat creeping up his throat was not helping him maintain his ruse.

"So you and Menlo…"  
"What about?"  
"Looks rather… incriminating. Like you're… having relations."  
"We're not!" Randal sputtered quickly "It's not what it looks like."  
"Oh it's _never_ what it looks like. Trust me. _I know_."

Randal flinched at the dripping tone. He stalled, filling the alley with sputters and noise, trying to find an explanation. Hustler inspected his nails, checking over Randal's hunched back to make sure they were alone. They were – but when he turned his eyes back to the smaller male that had made his life a living hell, he looked less like a confused and broken man mourning his favorite recorder. He looked angry, the spitfire kind, the argumentative kind. The kind Hustler liked to totally destroy without ever raising his fist.

"You- you can't do anything." Randal accused finally, pointing his finger. "I still have a whole box load of copies! I can sell them, find any other deceive and play them. I can still ruin you!"  
"And that will take you, what, a week to scrape up the money to buy a new recorder? A day to find the one with the right specs? A few hours to get you mom to drive you to the mall to get one? Or to get home to put the soundfile online?" He chuckled. "This, on the other hand, is ready to go up online now. Five minutes, tops, if the service around here is bad. I don't have to tell you, of all people, that most people respond better to visuals than to sound bytes. I mean, sure, you'll have the few curious ones downloading or clicking in, provided you get the word out – but there are millions of people who can see this if it goes up on any _single_ video host site. Never mind if it gets passed around."

Again, Randal flinched as if he'd been physically hit, the color slowly draining from his face. The sick, calculating part of the hustler smirked widely, knowing he'd caught his prey without the slightest flaw. _Gotcha_. But there was something there that the salesman did not like, and is spread across Randal's face like the headlights of a car passing in the night. He went from broken to composed, and though HK knew whatever straw he was clinging to was probably a decent one – but it would be snapped all the same.

"Okay okay. Checkmate." Randal admitted generously, standing up and dusting off his pants, putting his hands up in defeat "You got me. You're off the hook."  
"No we're not."  
"We're not?"  
"No."  
"But- we're both caught up in the same thing." His voice was cracking, Hustler hid his grin "You've got Menlo over me and I've got Butch over you so-"

"Not _so_ correct." Francis countered, holding up an authoritative finger, just short of slinging his arm around the weasels' shoulders and popping his head like a zit "Allow me to enlighten you to the point you've glossed over. Menlo is an innocent party. As was Butch. As was _I_. That leaves you, the start of all this mess, as the sole guilty party."

Francis wouldn't drag Menlo down in this, and he feared he'd given himself away including Menlo in the innocent trifecta, but Randal was far to worried about his own skin to even pick up on it and call his bluff. He just shook, his mouth agape, shrinking into himself and against the wall, down onto the tar. He was on his knees, prostrating himself to the hustler, shaking like he was about to get the hell beaten out of him. And he should have. Should have been scared to death. Should have been groveling. Should be beaten within an inch of his life for all the bullshit he'd pulled.

"Wh-What are you gonna do to me?" Randal asked, his voice small and weak, puny and easily crushed.  
"Nothing."  
"N-Nothing?"  
"Nothing." He affirmed, voice soft but strong, almost a contemptible hiss. "But know this." The hustler loomed in close, trapping Randal between bricks and himself, looking him dead in the eye to make damn sure he hear every syllable "If you so much as _think_ of hurting Butch again I will fuck you up so bad that even Menlo won't be able to save you."

Randal nodded quietly, having gone totally silent. Francis grinned at him, patted his cheek, said something along the lines of 'there's a good boy' and rose up to his full height. He towered over everything now. Looking down at Randal he smiled, waved a bit, and turned, exiting the darkened, ignored corner. He made sure to step on the already ruined recorder and tape pieces. He made sure not to whoop and holler, but to enjoy his freedom with that cool air of acceptance and deservedness. He made sure he had nothing more to worry about before he went running back to the very place he'd missed most.

O/O

Butch wasn't quite sure to react to the hustler gently rubbing his back to wake him up.

It was Friday, which meant he had nothing to worry about (save the glaringly obvious) and could afford to sleep in the next few days. Provided he got any sleep, that is. Due to some strange luck he managed to pass out for a little while after dejectedly flopping face first onto his couchbed. His mother, ever the kind and caring sort, left him alone right up until the nice young man Butch had met some months before came knocking. She offered him food and dinner, but he politely refused, wanting to speak to Butch first. She let him downstairs, no questions asked, and the hustler approached the sleeping body carefully, first smoothing back some of the longish hair and then carefully passing his hand over his shoulders and down his spine.

"Fran?" Butch slurred, blinking in the mild darkness "The hell you get down here?"  
"Your mom let me in." When the odd looks didn't subside he pressed on "I wanted to see you. It's been a while."  
"No shit."

Butch yawned in his face and drew his legs up and over the edge to make room for the other male. Despite still being sort of confused, half asleep, and somewhat miffed by the whole fuck-and-avoid thing that had been going on lately, he was really glad to see Francis again. Not that it meant he knew what to say or do. All he could really think about was that he was here, he was _back_, and because of that he was smiling stupidly enough for Francis to catch on. And he really didn't see any reason to stop until the hustler leaned over and pecked him on the mouth, remaining affixed in his personal bubble.

"Come over tonight."  
"What? No. No Fran. No. Fuck – I'm still really mad at you."  
"Why?"  
"W-why? WHY. You son of a bitch you abandon me for weeks and don't tell me a damn thing about it and then come right back and act like everything's just fucking fine and it's not Francis it's _not_ I know we're not together or whatever but _Christ_ man we're sleeping together I think I deserve at least _something_ like an explanation."

Butch was almost certain he'd said something like this before, the last time they had actually spoken (not the last time they slept together – then it had been silent). However, even if he was repeating himself he still hadn't gotten an answer, and he felt like he deserved it. So he huffed moodily and tried turning out of the hustler's grip, flopping over on his side with his head mostly buried in the pillow. Francis seemed less than phased by the sudden fit, and if he was upset he didn't let it show. At least not for a few moments.

Just as Butch was about to sneak a little peak he heard thick fabric shift behind him and a pocket of heat descend over his side. Before he knew it he was trapped between heavy-coated arms and underneath a much larger body. Butch could feel him breathe, his languid heartbeat against his arm. He felt the squared jaw dig into and then rest comfortably against his shoulder, the breath come in even puffs against his shirt and neck. He couldn't turn his head or make his eyes roll that far back, but Butch suspected Francis had his eyes shut and was quietly searching for the right thing to say. He sighed finally, the broad chest of him filling with air and pressing Butch's arm to his side, the exhale washing over the underside of his jaw. Francis shifted his arms upwards, clasping his hands over the shoulder hidden by pillow, his knuckles (still rough and bruised) brushing up against his jaw. Butch wasn't sure what to make of this loose hold or the prolonged silence, but he didn't dare say anything to break it.

"Trust me." Francis murmured almost lazily, repeating himself as Butch had "I don't expect you to, but it would be really nice if you did."

And, like always (though he hated himself for it) Butch forgave Francis for all his wrongs. Because he loved him, and apparently that was how his mind worked.

"You suck." Butch politely informed him "You suck and I hate your fucking guts."  
"You love me." Francis teased, more than happily burring his face into Butch's neck and making himself right at home there.  
"Fuck you." Butch spat (though his heart might have stopped if the accusation had been any more than friendly ribbing).

Francis didn't bother him with words anymore. He simply shut his eyes and inhaled, exhaled against the pale, scarred neck. It was a like he could fucking /breathe/ again. Like he was absolved. Sure, he'd drag this secret down with him to the grave, but everyone had their skeletons. He was just glad he hadn't lost this… thing. This Butch thing. It was totally worth the massive discount he was going to give TJ and Menlo. It was also totally worth the night of not sleeping he was planning on having. Even if he wasn't going to screw the poor bastard's brains out like he desperately wanted, he was going to make him feel less like a booty call by cuddling the living _shit_ out of him whether he liked it or not, either at his (thankfully now) empty house, or right here, for the rest of forever.

"If you're not going to come back with me, can I stay with you?"  
"What, here?"  
"Yeah. Pull out the bed. Tell your mom we need to work on a project."  
"Why?"  
"You lie better than I do."  
"No, I mean why are you so fucking set on staying with me? I just basically told you to go fuck yourself."  
"I missed you."

The answer was so automatic, so simply uttered that Butch was flushing again by the time it registered. It wasn't even a very good reason, but it was totally working. He hated that Francis could do this to him over and over and over again and he'd just fall for it every goddamn time. Predictably, then, he turned a little under the larger male, twisting his spine enough to see him straight on. For the first time in a long time he was able to see him like he remembered – smiling, warm and alive, cocky but deserving. All in all, regardless of cliché, that was the face he'd fell in love with, and the bastard was just lording it over him like always. But he loved it, and he couldn't stop loving it even if it pissed him off so much he felt like beating that fucking perfect smile off his face so he could think about anything else.

"Okay." Butch relented quietly, puckering his lips to just barely brush them against the corner of Fran's already smiling mouth "Okay."

* * *

**Alright, I'm done fucking up their lives for a little while. I swear. I'm not sure what chapter comes next but there is something and I don't believe there will be a ton of editing. So expect it a lot sooner than these behemoths. **

**Thanks for reading!**


	32. Unsaid

**Hi all! Not too much to say about this chapter except that it's a bit of filler, a bridge if you will. Because in all honesty after reading the last chapter after giving my eyes a rest from it I _did_ kinda let Franny off a bit easy. Ergo, angst! ****  
**  
**Enjoy! **

* * *

After the initial ease with which Butch accepted, things seemed to grow worse before they got better.

"Are you ever going to tell me anything?"  
"Probably not."

Butch made the attempt to look hurt, but in reality he just looked vaguely disappointed. He'd asked the question twenty times before and had gotten the same answer. He couldn't blame Francis for being inconsistent any more than Francis could blame him for being increasingly cold.

It would happen the same way every time. There would be the starting warmth, the nicety, the heavy petting they were used to. Like nothing had happened. But gradually there would be a shift, and the silence would grow awkward and long. Neither one would try to break it now, not after all the terrible attempts that ended in bubbling resentment and slammed doors. In some ways, however, the way it ended now was worse. Butch would ask that question – always in the same way, tone, and at the same point in the thickened quiet. Francis would answer at his own pace, immediately if he was doing nothing, after a moment if he had his hands full. And it was always the same answer. And Butch would always try to look upset, but he'd give up and sigh and sometimes mumble a 'see you later', but he'd always get up and leave.

Francis couldn't blame him.

But after weeks of this he did stop him.

Feigning obliviousness at Butch's want to flee the premises, the hustler grabbed his arm and forced him to sit. They were in his sitting room this time – the one on the second floor overlooking the backyard. They hadn't really been doing anything, just keeping each other company. Francis felt the quiet shift from comfortable to tense, and though he had prepared something clever and heartfelt by way of explanation, his usual phrase snuck out first. To say it killed him to see Butch's face fall each and every time was an understatement. It angered him a bit too, even if he knew it was his fault. But he didn't know what else to do.

Butch didn't try to wrench out of his grip. It seemed like he was too tired to put up a fight, that he just wanted to give it up and go home. Francis sort of wanted that too – except in his version he wanted Butch to sit down and stay with him for the night. Despite the smoothing over of most hostilities Butch hadn't spent many nights with him. In some ways this was worse. Before he had an excuse as to why he couldn't be near the other male. Now he had none, save his own hesitance and inability to tell. He was too worried. What could he say? What would Butch _think_? Francis was certain he'd want to end it, to keep them both safe from another slip - but the hustler couldn't do without it anymore than Butch could do without his cigarettes.

"I'm sorry."  
"I know." Butch answered, too quickly "I've already forgiven you."  
"Doesn't seem like it."  
"Can't exactly be thrilled with you, Franny. Considering what went down."  
"Will you ever?"  
"Ever what?"  
"Actually forgive me."  
"I told you." Butch finally sat down again. "I already did."

Francis bit back the accusatory remark. He hadn't forgiven him. If he had, he'd be in bed with him, clinging to him, begging him for more. Trying to make up for lost time. That's all he really wanted – for things to go back to the way they were, if not with a few changes. He would be nicer about it now. More accommodating, less violent, maybe even a little more open. For a moment, he wondered if maybe, just maybe, he could tell Butch what happened. Come clean. If he'd learned anything from shit he went through, it was that he was sort of a huge asshole. Butch didn't deserve that. At the very, very least, Francis figured Butch deserved the truth, even if it was going to be terrifying to give it. However, in the creepy way he usually did, Butch cleared his throat before he could say anything, and told him the very thing he was more or less afraid of saying by himself.

"I kinda just wish you'd be honest with me." Butch admitted out loud, not looking at him, more at the vase in the far corner.  
"I'm not the only one with secrets."  
"I know, I know. But-" He laid his hand over his stomach, glancing at the hustler when he didn't remove his hand from his wrist. "I've told you mine."  
"And I've told you mine. Just not this one." After a moment of silence he added, "That's all?"  
"Hm?"  
"That's the only secret you have?"

Butch watched the larger hand shift smoothly from gripping his wrist loosely to laying it over his hand. The storyteller didn't like the turn this was taking. He didn't like to play the guilt card, but he really was fucking curious and he though he deserved even the vaguest plot summary of what the fuck had happened. All in all, he really didn't like how anything was turning out. Francis was being too nice all of a sudden, too calm, too willing to forget. It was scaring him. It was too close to what he wanted. He didn't want to have to go through a fucking trial to get closer – or to get closer at all. He just wanted things back to normal so he could convince himself he didn't need it.

"No." Butch admitted, telling the truth despite himself "It's not."  
"I figured."

Without much warning Francis closed his hand over Butch's and shifted closer. Butch fidgeted, but stayed put. All things considered, he did kind of like the random affection. He just knew it wasn't really meant for him so much as a sort of reflex. But it was nice to pretend sometimes, even if he knew he was setting himself up for a greater fall. So he let it be for a minute. He'd get up and take his leave once Fran let go of him, or once the silence turned repressive again. But it seemed to take a lot longer than usual. Francis even laid his head on Butch's shoulder and sort of shoved him over so they were more sideways than sitting up. Oddly enough, Butch was comfortable like that, and he didn't really want to move. It was warm and quiet and he could make believe for just a little while longer…

"I'll make a deal with you." Francis muttered suddenly, making Butch perk up. "I'll tell you everything."  
"E-Everything?"  
"Yep. I'll pour my heart and soul out to you. Tell you everything. Every little thing. Answer every question without hesitation for as long as you can think them up. No bull, no lies. But you have to do the same for me. No secrets."  
"No secrets." He repeated.  
"Not a one."

For a long moment, Butch was quiet, scarcely breathing. His throat closed up completely the more he felt the other's breath on his cheek, his neck. His mind started and stopped like an old car engine, rattling inside his skull. This was the most terrifying thing he'd ever been faced with. The chance for truth, to know every little goddamn thing about Francis without the guilt. The chance to come clean and be honest without pressure. All he had to do was agree and make Francis go first then ask to his hearts content. That way if something went wrong, if his confessions went awry, then at the very least he had something to hang over Fran's head to keep him quiet. More than that, he finally had a reason to tell, to admit he loved the hustler more than anything in the natural world, to tell him he adored every inch of him, loved every part unconditionally. He trembled. This was _it_. This was what he wanted.

And he knew he couldn't do it.

"I just wanna forget this whole thing happened." Butch mumbled lamely, unable to completely lie but totally able to disguise it "It's… just gonna take a little while."  
"Understood." Francis sounded relieved, and Butch sort of realized he was too. "Will you stay?"  
"Stay?"  
"Here. Tonight."  
"I don't- I mean…"  
"You don't have to."  
"I know _that_ I just-"  
"I've-"  
"Huh?"  
"Sorry. I just… I've kinda missed you." He didn't move, not letting Butch look at him "I'm not exactly the friend or clingy type. But it's been weird without you. I miss it. You."  
"S'funny."  
"Me clingy?"  
"… yeah."

Butch didn't elaborate. He didn't correct him either. Didn't bother telling Francis he missed it too. That he missed him. That he wanted nothing more than to pretend again. Curiously enough he felt better and so much worse than he had in a long time – like he was going to cry but for two different reasons, happy and sad. He resisted, of course, unwilling to start bawling for no reason.

But Francis wrapped his arms around him, pressing him onto the couch. Butch drew his legs up under him, under the both of them. He felt the ghost of a smile on the side of his neck and the shift of weight. He was crushed under the hustler – but he didn't mind it. He _had_ missed it, missed him, missed everything. Mostly the chance to believe that maybe, one day, this could be less of a way for Francis to placate his bad mood and more of a common occurrence, something they did because they _both_ wanted.

But for now he'd forgive and forget, if only to hang on just a little longer.

* * *

**The next updates will be coming soon, but like everything else they need rewrites so... uh... yeah. Maybe not as soon as I would have liked. But I've got a rough idea of what's coming up. Yay!**


	33. Bells Should be Ringing

**I am running out of things to saaaaaaay. Guh. **  
**More plot advancement. More drilling through Franny's thick head.**  
**Does he get it? No! But there's a start in there somewhere. Somewhere. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

"Damn Tammy – where the hell do you live? Bumblefuck?"

The call had come at six in the morning, because he didn't need sleep to function or anything. That had been Fingers' reason. He'd actually been genuinely surprised to hear Francis had been sleeping when his cell buzzed, rang, and clattered off his nightstand two hours before his alarm was set to wake him. The hustler had almost crushed the device out of spite, until he noticed the ringing, and stupidly answered it.

"This better be fucking important." He had told Fingers, only half listening to his bemused rant on how he figured even robotic workaholics needed to recharge.  
"You have work to do. Tammy vanished again and I can't cover her usual shipment."  
"And so… I have to?"  
"Yeah, that's about the size of it." Before the Hustler could tell him to go fuck himself Fingers added the magic words: "You get to keep the commission."

Because he was the world's biggest greedy idiot, Hustler had agreed, and met Fingers at Hustler HQ, took the shipment of God knew what, packed it into his trunk, and set off to the address, mechanically taking turns and listening to the radio murmur softly under the GPS directions. It was only after he'd sucked down half his thermos of coffee and passed though three towns did he wake up and start to regret his decisions. He glanced out of his back window and ultimately shrugged, figuring what was done was done and he was going to get paid, so no big deal. All he knew was that he better be compensated for gas too. It was kind of a hike to get out here, and his wallet did not appreciate it.

Finally, the helpful little too-human voice let the hustler know he'd arrived at the right spot. But something seemed weirdly off. He checked the address and what he'd punched into the system, then looked back up at the sign he was parked in front of.

"Saint Catharine's School for Girls." He read sleepily "Tammy I am not fucking awake enough for this."

Despite his fatigue he was cautious, and perhaps a bit worried. He'd heard strange things about churches – not that he was particularly non-religious, but it still bothered him. Ruler toting nuns and less than wholesome priests in the news, hypersexed fetishistic schoolgirl insanity from Kink and a few other vendors, fire and brimstone preachers scaring the living hell (literally) out of a few of his peers. All of that, compounded by the horror stories he'd heard about all girls schools (hazing, hormonal, psychotic girls taught by crotchety, bitter, angry old bitches) and the possible flack he was going to get by being _male_ if caught, made him check to see if he was alone, and then if his doors were locked.

But he was being silly. Foolish. Those were all just bullshit stories, exaggerated worse than Butch's outright lies (if he wasn't mistaken, Hustler was sure Butch had told him a few terrifying tales). They were just a bunch of girls in skirts who might or might not have a decent arrangement with Tammy, and therefore needed the crap he was going to supply. And, because he was here, and she was not, he was their only hope. Ergo, they couldn't hurt him. And if they tried, well, he could probably take them. It wasn't like he was going up with a colony of Spinelli (though the thought made him shudder). But that could hardly be the case. The whole infrastructure would collapse in a dog pile trying to figure out who was the best fighter. He had nothing to worry about. He was getting all worked up for nothing.

Which made it all the more embarrassing when a demure hand knocked on his window and made him spasm so much it actually frightened the girl outside.

He took a breath, recovered, and smoothly stepped out of his car. The girl – she was actually pretty cute – smiled and shuffled her feet and played with the hem of her skirt nervously, peering up at her with big blue eyes. Really cute, actually. Not that it did much of anything for him, but he smiled a bit more genuinely.

"Are you uh… uh the…"  
"Tammy's guy? Yeah. Sorry she ain't here. Got the stuff though."  
"She called. You're Frankie, right?"  
"Francis. Call me Hustler."  
"O-Okay."  
"And you?"  
"Huh?"  
"Your name."  
"Ah-ah…." She flushed, squirming, and the hustler thought it was sort of endearing, but also kind of annoying. "M-Megan."  
"Well Megan." Hustler said conversationally, shifting toward his trunk "I'm gonna guess that Tammy told you how much she wants for it. Or what she wants for it."  
"Y-Yes."  
"And am I correct to assume that you have her payment."  
"Yes."

There was a pause. She continued to squirm. Francis stood there awkwardly and looked around, making sure that there was no one else around, that this wasn't a sting of some sort. The silence bothered him and he desperately wanted to be back home in bed, perhaps with a little company, but God did he want to sleep.

"Megan?"  
"Y-yeah?"  
"Can I have it?"  
"What?"  
"The payment. If you give me that, I'll pop the trunk, and you can take whatever it is that's in there. I'll even help you move it, if you'd like."  
"N-no. We've… I've got it." She took a deep breath and checked behind her, then turned and made some sort of arm motion.  
"Checkin' me out huh?" He teased, figuring her for scout duty. She flushed a brilliant shade of red – the same kind Butch did when he told him he was cute. "S'cool. I'm just here to make the drop. Do what you gotta do."

Megan smiled thankfully and made the motion again. Five more girls, clothed in the same plain skirts, appeared and hustled toward them. Megan ran to meet them, and after a rushed, hushed girl conference (one of the few things Francis always found rather curious – it was like a football huddle but always seemed to carry more weight), another girl – this one a bit more bold – marched over and handed him a small sack.

"Payment's in there." She said. "Tammy said to just take it."  
"You realize if you stiff her I'll get my ass handed to me and then she'll find you, right?" It was a standard warning with Tammy, and the girl seemed unfazed.  
"We got it. Pop the trunk. We'll take it from here."

Francis did with a mild shrug and stepped aside. In motions that Francis couldn't help but think resembled that of startled ants, the group grabbed the corners and bottoms and carted the pile away to wherever they stashed themselves. He watched the phenomenon in a stupor, scratching his head. Tammy had really drilled into them what she wanted in customers, and for a moment he couldn't help but be a little jealous. But the group paused, looking between them, then at the trunk, then nervously at him. A quick peek into the trunk confirmed that there was a single box left – too heavy to carry between them, he figured. Second trip would be too risky. So he shrugged and stowed the payment in his coat.

"I'll give you a hand." He offered, lifting and shouldering the box.

They eyed him, but nodded and carried on silently, walking quickly to some building nestled between others. They lead him inside, down a hall, and then back outside again to a small building, where they all entered. However, before he could follow them in one stopped him, took the box, and shut the door in his face. He'd waited a moment, but no one came out or did anything else, so he gave up on that venture, and reminded himself of the nice bed waiting for him.

Just as he had begun to leave there came an awful shuffling. It was too heavy to be a skirt, and at once Francis wished it was a ghost. He berated himself for it, cursing his spending too much time with Butch and his crazy stories, but then there was a thumping behind him, and he turned, coming face to face with an unrealistically old lady. He grimaced at her, recoiling a step. It was impossible someone could live to be that old and decrepit- how in the hell was she able to stand?

"Young _man_?" came a sudden cry "What are _you_ doing here?"

Hustler turned and ran as fast as he could.

O/O

This sucked. He was trapped with a fat wad of semi-innocent schoolgirl money and a nun that could probably rival Finster's age and ability to scare anyone shitless. And this one was aloud to _hit_ you.

Hustler groaned and rubbed his face. Figures he'd pick one of the central buildings – surrounded on all sides but not used. He'd trapped himself in his haste to get away from that nonliving, living thing. Could he have been any more suspicious or shady?

The best part about this whole thing was all he could think about was how much Butch would love to turn this into a story he could market to the masses. It was sad, really; how obsessed he was with the storyteller. At least this story would be fact over fiction. For once Butch would tell the truth. Or at least part of it.

It had been about an hour since he bolted, and no one had come looking for him or sent search parties. He worried about his car being found or hotwired or lifted or something, but then again it was a damn church, and the most he had to worry about was a tow, maybe. Between lying down and sitting up and stretching his legs, Hustler checked the windows frequently, but the grounds seemed to be alive suddenly, crawling with kids and clergy. He had no way to get out – not yet, anyway.

The only thing that kept him from being extremely pissed off about this whole thing was the commission he was going to get – which, even if he got the short end of the stick, was going to be sizable.

He had just recounted the sack of cash for the fifth time on the top of a scratched half-hobbled teacher's desk, doing calculations in his head to estimate his cut when the doorknob began to shiver. His head shot up and he looked at the door, tense and ready to run or hide or jump out of the way. He clasped the closest piles of money in his fist and shifted backward, ready for anything. He knew he was being overly cautious and somewhat ridiculous – but there was really no feasible way to explain his presence in an all-girls school _and_ church with extraneous cash without looking like a pimp or drug dealer.

Luck for him, the person at the door was not some upset priest or angry nun. It was another schoolgirl, who peeked in and set eyes on him and smiled. She let herself in and sighed, smiling, muttering something like 'there you are' in the relieved tone most people use for misplaced pets. Despite still being unnerved, Hustler calmed down and slipped back into his makeshift seat, quickly recounting and setting the piles of money that had been messed up by his fist. He was interested in why she was here, but he didn't press. It was better to wait for information – lest you give something away unnecessarily.

"The girls told me you ran in here." She explained without prompt, smiling kindly.  
"Someone saw me?"  
"Just the loaders. They told the runners to tell the buyers to tell the scouts to tell me 'cause I'm the fastest to tell you that you can sneak out of here when the six bell goes with no problem. It's only like an hour from now, so sit tight."  
"Does this happen often?"  
"Only when Tammy sends newbies."  
Hustler flinched, still not looking up at her. "Ow. My pride."

She chuckled, catching his joke. He gathered up the money he'd been counting and stashed it in the pouch and stashed the pouch in his coat. He almost asked her why she was still lingering, then figured she was waiting for the bells herself, or to make sure there was no one around. He had no idea how this place worked, and he wasn't about to ask and make a further ass out of himself.

"So you sell stuff, right?" She asked suddenly, eyeing him with curiosity.  
"That's about the size of it, yeah." He glanced up at her finally and raised a brow. "You need something?"  
"What do you have?"  
"What do you need?"

She smiled and made some noise of approval, approaching him. Francis tucked his legs back under him, then tossed them over the edge of the desk he was sitting on, letting them dangle. His hand strayed to his coat, and her gaze followed, only to snap back up to his face.

"Lets say it's not exactly the best thing for a nice young lady to want-"  
"Smokes?"  
She stammered, her eyes widening in surprise. "How did you know?"  
"Lucky guess." He shrugged. "Going rate for a pack is seven – only got one brand though."  
"The brand isn't an issue. The price, however-"  
"Don't haggle on narcotics. Sorry."  
"I could pay some… other way."

The hustler paused, looking up at her. A smile played on her face and she opened her stance a little, drawing her lower lip between her teeth, playing cute. He gave her a once over since she was inviting it – and he wasn't disappointed. She was pretty, maybe beautiful if she hadn't been slapped with such a dull uniform. Leggy and maybe a little on the thin side, but not disgustingly so. She had pretty features, big brown eyes, a rounded face, shaggy brown hair, smooth curves – just a generally attractive person, who seemed really interested in Francis if all of her squirming and coy looks were any indication.

Francis couldn't stop the words before they flew out of his mouth.

"Sorry – I'm gay."

At the startled look she gave him, Francis' face contorted into a strange one of his own. He had no idea where that came from. It wasn't exactly true – he couldn't believe he lied so easily. He liked girls still, even if he was kind of involved with Butch. Butch was kinda girly. A little – he was thin and slim and submissive. But not a girl. Definitely not a girl. His dick was way too big for that.

Oh and it was such an easy lie, too! He just took off with it. Ran his mouth like a sales pitch he'd thrown a million times before.

"Yeah. I'm taken now actually – dating someone. Really great guy. Cute. You'd probably hit on him too. But yeah, we're together goin' on… I guess a year or something now. So sorry, but no go on that offer of yours. Wouldn't be fair. Couldn't do that to him besides. And not just 'cause he'd rip my balls off and wear them as earrings. I actually kinda crazy about him."

Himself satisfied (both by the impressive half-lie and the look on her face), he smiled and waves as she stomped off. He really had no idea where all that bullshit came from, but it got him off the hook, and he was pleased enough with that. So what if some sex starved schoolgirls would think he was a fag? No skin off his nose. He'd never be back. This was a favor, and maybe, just maybe, if Tammy got wind of this, she'd keep from bringing him back.

Probably not. Bitch was crazy – and he meant that in the nicest, brotherliest way possible.

So, without really thinking about it, he ducked into the next room to be closer to the exit door (taking care to make sure this one was empty), and recounted his profits (to make sure he hadn't been pick pocketed), and hung out. It was kinda awkward listening to the church bells ring and the occasional shuffle of feet and skirts swish by underneath the windows, but he hid, and remained hidden, until the bells rang again six times. That was his cue to leave.

O/O

Despite his rather active morning, the escape and trip home had been wonderfully uneventful. He'd treated himself to a meal at a diner and filed up his gas tank and then called Fingers to yell at him for not warning him about the old ass nun. He then hung up on Fingers because he was being a prick (the asshole _laughed_ at him) and made a mental note to box his ears next time he saw him. And then he went upstairs and showered and changed into old clothes and thought about doing some cleaning but ultimately ended up falling on his bed and just lying there.

He would have gone to sleep, catch up on rest he was so deprived of. But something was bothering him. Just a little thing really. It was that he lied. He hadn't for a while now – if one didn't count half truths and withholding some info. He'd rebuilt his reputation from that somewhat shady guy in the trench coat who could get you what you needed by questionable but never discussed means to that honest guy in the trench coat who could get you what you needed by questionable but never discussed means. And he was happy to have people trust him. Honest businessman wasn't such a familiar moniker around here. It was a badge of honor he wore with pride, and wore it well. Which sort of made him feel funny about lying on the job like that.

Then again, it wasn't so much the fact he'd lied. He'd lied before, and well, to bigger rubes. Even now, being the reformed man he was, he still lied occasionally. It was hard to be completely honest. He tried hard to not mix lies and work. But even so it wasn't so muh he had fibbed well enough to fool some potential buyer. It was just that it came out so easy in a situation that he was usually all for exploiting.

That was the kind of thing he'd leapt at before, the kind of thing other guys dreamed of that he got on demand. She was cute, attractive even. And she was clearly interested in him. He had yet to be accused of not being a flexible guy. Three modes of payment were his standard (well, more of two – he was never one for illegal substances), and as far as everyone knew he was still open to those modes. Usually, he was, especially to pretty girls. No one had asked him in a while, was all – mostly offering up cash on the spot or some equal item of trade. But she had offered, quite adequately, and he just let it go.

Because of Butch.

That's what he'd been sitting in his room thinking about for the past hour. How he'd given that easy lay up. How he'd referred to himself as not only being with Butch, but _dating_ him for more than a year. Being his boyfriend. Those lies – and they _were_ lies – had fell from his lips so easily. Naturally. Like the truth. And most troubling of all was how he didn't regret a single word. Which presented something of a problem, though he wasn't quite sure what that problem was.

Francis heaved a sigh, staring up at his ceiling. He'd think more, worry more, because he had nothing else to do – but as it was it sounded like someone was trying to break into his room. He'd worry about that, but the cursing and grumbling was unmistakable. He didn't even lift his head when Butch finally opened the door and huffed.

"You dead?" Butch asked the body.  
"No."  
"Good."

Butch waltzed into his room, and at the risk of being called a rude jackass, Francis lifted his head. Butch looked a bit worn out and damp and aggravated, but pleased enough to be there. If the hustler wasn't mistaken, he could smell a whiff of smoke from him, which usually meant Butch chain smoked right up until he came inside, which also meant he stamped the butt of his last cig out on the porch. Francis would be cranky about it later. For all his speculating and worrying and thinking earlier, he was rather glad that Butch was here. So show that, he dropped his head back onto the pillow and did absolutely nothing, leaving Butch to start up conversation again.

"Where you been?"  
"Making deliveries."  
"Ah. Well shit. Missed you this morning."  
"I was out at five."  
Butch hissed, as if the hour offended him. "Ow. Jesus I thought I had it bad. This gonna be a regular thing?"  
"For a little while, maybe. One of the hustlers dropped out of sight. I'm helping cover."  
"Well that blows. Kinda wish I caught you, though. Instead had to help move crap around and do chores and other lovely stuff. Sore as hell" Butch looked at the empty expanse of bed with longing enough to make Francis grin at the ceiling, though he couldn't see it "May I?"  
"Be my guest."

Butch crawled into bed and flopped down beside him, huffing indignantly. His hands shot out and took up his pillows, pulling them back to his body and curling around them, burying his face into them and whining. He rolled over onto his back suddenly, pillows still clasped to his chest, and glared at Francis over the tops of the pillows as he watched him.

"What."  
"You're fucking adorable."  
"Shut up."

Francis laughed and attempted to salvage one of his stolen pillows, only to drag Butch forward with it. Seeing as how he was latched on like a burr, Francis let them both go, the bundle bouncing a bit on the bed as it landed. Butch made some noise like a grunt and turned to face him finally, still looking at him over the tops of his cushiony treasure.

"What are you thinking?" His disembodied voice asked, partially muffled by the open flaps of the pillowcase.  
"Nothing really. Made a strange drop today."  
"Oh?"  
"Butch, I work weekends. We've been over this, and if you call me an old fart again I will hit you. The pillows will not help."  
"No, naw – it's not that. You just looked thoughtful. Actually thoughtful – not profit thoughtful."  
"There's a difference?"  
"There is with you." Butch admitted, shrugging "So what's up?"  
"It's just something I heard. Nothing important."

Butch looked like he were about to protest, but he didn't. Instead he released the pillows and put them behind his head, rolling onto his back and shifting upwards to lie on them properly. Francis shifted closer, bumping shoulders with him, and only allowed himself to smile when he saw Butch smiled too out the corner of his eye.

But then he did something weird – something he really couldn't explain himself. He moved his hand a little, then the rest of his arm, and finally his hand just ended up lurching over, his fingers curling over Butch's relaxed hand. As if that wasn't enough, he moved his hand again after a short pause, sliding his fingers between Butch's still limp hand. Francis stared at the ceiling, his brows creased, confused at himself. He glanced at his side and saw the storyteller hadn't moved, save to draw his other arm up to rest on his stomach. Neither one of them made any move to stop the spontaneous handhold. And Francis was kind of glad. Because it felt nice. Butch's hands were smaller than his but not by much, softer and long-fingered. His fingers were bigger, and they filled in the gaps between Butch's tight enough that he could maybe feel the smaller mans heartbeat. And for some weird reason he really liked feeling him so close, feeling his heart thrum against his hand.

"This is gay." Butch announced suddenly, his eyes on the ceiling.  
"Mhm."  
"Like, really gay."  
"We could have sex." Francis mumbled, shrugging "That might be less gay."  
"I'm too tired and sore and not in the mood."  
"So shut up and rest."  
"Dick."

The hustler laughed at him, sinking further into the blankets. He almost felt like shutting his eyes and falling asleep, catching up on the rest he was deprived of this morning. It seemed like that phone call had happened days ago, that this morning was nothing more than a weird dream he was paid to have. If he were more awake he would be questioning why he was so into this particular moment, lying beside Butch, fingers straight, palm to palm – but as it was he just yawned obnoxiously and looked at Butch, who had closed his eyes, and followed suit.

* * *

**Awww, look, they're bonding!**

Thanks for reading!


	34. Fruity

**Hi everyone! Who's ready for a drabble? Everyone? OKAY GREAT.**

**Butch is rather forward this time around, which might seem a bit out of place. I'll let you decide if it's his randomly being bold or HK forcing more onto the situation than he had done previous. MULTIPLE INTERPRETATIONS WHOOP.**  
**Enjoy!**

* * *

There was an increasingly long list of foods Butch wasn't allowed to eat. It wasn't for health reasons. In fact, he probably should be eating all the items on the list if it was for that purpose. He was far too skinny for his own good, and rarely ate unless he was forced to sit down and do so. Instead he seemed content with cigarettes, and stowing away his lunch money for said cigarettes. Not exactly the healthiest of options ('a vicious cycle', Hustler had said), but Butch always countered he wasn't alone in doing so, and didn't really give a shit either way, stop asking. This list was for an entirely different reason.

Perhaps it should have been more accurately named: Foods Butch Wasn't Allowed to Eat in Public in the Presence of Hustler.

Presently, (and unsurprisingly) it included a myriad of foods that would and could easily been misrepresented as… other things. For example, hot dogs, bananas, pretzel rods and popsicles. It wasn't as if Butch _meant_ for it to be an erotic display- he just enjoyed his food. It wasn't his fault he ate slowly and that is looked so much like… well, Hustler just made sure Butch was kept away from those in public.

It also included most fruits. It wasn't that many fruits were phallic shaped aside from the occasional banana and maybe a strawberry. It was because fruits were juicy. And juicy things dripped. And when things dripped Butch didn't have enough sense to ask for a napkin. He'd just lick it right off of his hands with that tongue of his. This grouping also included anything sticky or anything that left behind some sort of residue, like extra cheesy chips or caramel corn.

Foods covered in other foods were also a big no-no. Butch had an unsettlingly hardwired habit of sucking off the covering substance before even attempting to get to the food that was covered. Francis learned this the hard way, watching helplessly while a fudge-covered apple was mercilessly stripped of its fudge coating by a voracious, talented pink tongue.

Sometimes Butch could get away with some foods as long as Hustler's back was turned or he wasn't paying too much attention. Butch often got away with crunching on extra cheesy chips or pretzel rods or the occasional grape. Conversely, Hustler would add temporary items onto the list when he was attentively staring at Butch while he ate. For example, offering a thrown-together dinner of spaghetti and meatballs one night at his house resulted in an impromptu show involving some slightly-too watery, dripping sauce, which Butch promptly licked off of _everything_, and made the hustler whine something terrible.

For a long while, Hustler made sure Butch was coincidentally away from all possible suggestive foods while out among the public. Then he made the mistake of _telling_ Butch there was a list in the first place. He hadn't _meant_ to. It kind of flew out of his mouth before he could stop it. They had been sitting in the cafeteria, out of the way of most of their classmates and Butch had been talking about something or another. Before he knew what was happening, the storyteller was getting up, interrupting their mild conversation with something about getting a hotdog.

Hustler had kicked his leg out and hooked it under the other's knee, forcing Butch to topple back into his seat.

"You can't eat those." He said suddenly.  
"What? Why the hell not? Dirt-water dogs are my favorite lunch!" Butch whined, kicking him in the shin under the table and calling him an asshole under his breath, "Thought you'd be thrilled I'm actually _eating_. What's your problem?"  
"You can eat them. And I am glad you are eating. But I'd prefer it if you skipped this time around."  
"The hell, Francis? First you're up my ass about not eating, and now you're telling me to stop. Are you trying to give me issues?"  
"I hardly need to try to accomplish that."  
"Ass."

Butch had begun to eye him carefully, scrutinizing his uncomfortable stance and leaning forward. Francis leaned back, sitting straighter, trying not to tense. Like some sort of dog (even though Butch claimed to hate them), he could sense fear and discomfort and lies. The hustler admired that about him despite his penchant for ignoring his own compulsive lying problem. He also hated it when it was turned on him. Francis frowned at Butch, forming a quick excuse to escape this situation he was unable to use, for Butch spoke first.

"I demand you tell me why. The real reason."  
"It's not important."  
"It's because it looks like a dick, doesn't it?" Butch hissed quietly, blandly, already shaking his head.  
"Well..."  
"You horny _bastard_." Butch had muttered, staring at him, suspicions confirmed "Anything else?"

Against his better judgment, Francis had started to list off the foods that would be more than likely to make him launch over the table and thoroughly molest him for. He was counting on his fingers, though the number was far, far more than ten. Butch stopped him at seventeen with the shocked look on his face switching rapidly into confusion.

"Cherries?" He asked, "What the hell is so bad about cherries?"  
"Have you ever _watched_ yourself eat a cherry?" HK asked, pausing his countdown.  
"Well… no."  
"Then you won't understand."  
"Seriously though – what about cherries gets to you?" Butch asked, his eyes sparkling dangerously. Hustler was already regretting this decision.  
"It's not important."  
"Is it the juice? Do I chew it differently? Is it that stem thing?" Butch grinned "I bet it's the stem thing."  
"J-Just don't do it."

He was about to go back to counting when he caught sight of Butch's eerie shark smile. He shivered internally; the storyteller had been watching him too often- he knew that grin was some mutilated, horrific version of his salesman smile. That glint in his eye couldn't be good.

"Do my eyes deceive me?" Butch drawled, leaning forward, making the conversation private and lewd smack dab in the middle of the damned cafeteria "Or is the building stuttering - and _blushing_?" He snickered and arched a brow. "I think I just found my new favorite food…"  
The hustler jerked and rubbed his face looking around and making sure no one was paying attention. "Butch…"  
"What?" Came the innocent reply. Too innocent. He risked looking up to see a cherry dangling from Butch's fingers, wiggling in the air, plucked expertly from the next table over. Francis paled (how had he done that so fast?). "If I can't eat a hotdog, then can I partake in something more healthy? Like a cherry? A cherry like this one here?"  
"Butch _please!_" Hustler hissed, gnawing his lip, glancing around again and dropping his voice "Do you _want_ me to molest you in public?"  
Butch only grinned, twirling the cherry between his fingers. "Oh, I don't think you will. I know you too well. You wouldn't take that risk, especially with so many people here. Of course you could drag me into the bathroom after – but you hate being late so I'm pretty much covered. Until after school that is. But it'll be fun making you wait that long."  
"Don't!" Hustler hissed. How Butch could be so fucking casual abut this he had no idea, but he hated it, and wanted to punch him.  
"Give me a reason."  
"Anything. I'll give you anything."  
"Anything? I don't think _anything_ could quite measure up to the face you're making right now… Except maybe the one you'll make later, right before you pounce." Butch shrugged off the muted whimper that escaped the hustler, hid badly by a grimace and glare "Tell you what, you get me a snack that won't send you scurrying to the bathroom and I'll give you the cherry and let your poor libido alone."

Francis sighed, deflating. He had no idea where this terrible mean-spirited teasing streak had come from or when Butch had sprouted the balls to be so candid about something so private (something he'd been exceedingly careful about, given previous incidents), but so long as he quelled it before the fire spread he would be okay. Now all he had to so was be quick and find something mildly innocuous and look at his hands for the rest of lunch and he'd be home free. He'd exact his revenge later. Francis smiled and turned, looking around for the vending machines. The faculty must have moved them out into the hall again. He turned back and was mid-rising from his seat when, out of the blue, Butch chirped "Time's up!" and slipped the little red fruit into his waiting mouth.

Francis had to sit down. Oh, it was a million times worse now that Butch knew he was watching. Normally he would just pop it in his mouth and let the cherry stem dangle from his lips like a cigarette, which was decidedly more erotic than Francis had ever dreamed it could have been. But this time, Butch had an audience to perform for, and he caught and held the hustler's gaze in an iron grip. This time, he used his damn tongue, rolling it out to take the little red fruit into his mouth with a soft pop. He smiled around the stem, stuck out his tongue again, and slowly drew that into his mouth as well. Francis whimpered quietly, and Butch waggled his eyebrows, doing something unseen behind his lips and teeth. A moment or so later, Butch spit out the seed and then offered the tied cherry stem to Francis as a reward for not attacking him, violently or otherwise. He looked more than satisfied with himself.

Francis, on the other end, was very, very busy trying to keep from running off to the nearest exit, or preferably the nearest empty bathroom. Unbelievable. Why people saw fit to humiliate him in cafeterias Francis could never understand, but all these people around had to be blind to not be reacting. Someone had to have noticed. He attempted to glare at Butch, but the goofy smile and the knowing glint in his eye made him think twice. For all the hustler knew, he'd pinched another handful from some unsuspecting student or had a whole bag of cherries hidden nearby to use to his advantage. Therefore, he couldn't afford to be angry with the storyteller, not with so much and so many possible ways it could backfire. At least, not at the moment. So for now he gulped, forcing himself to calm down and _not_ contemplate his rebuttal just yet.

"Tell me, how much worse is it now that I know you're watching me?" Butch purred, his chin in his hand as he leaned forward a bit. The shudder and the renewed pink in Fran's face made him snicker. "Oh, this is something I am going to have fun with."  
"Where did you learn the… stem thing?" Hustler muttered, silently cursing his big mouth.  
"I got bored one day. I can unwrap a Starburst without using my hands, too. Wanna see?"  
"No no – I already know about that, thank you."  
"Oh yeah – I remember." Butch chuckled and smiled wistfully, playing with the knotted stem in his fingers "Should seen that comin' a mile away."

Francis whimpered and half-heartedly glared at him. Butch wasn't so much walking the border of love and hate with this whole teasing thing, as he was straddling and dry humping it with all the gusto of a practiced pole dancer. He shook his head at that mental image. Butch was grinning. Thankfully, before he could show him another 'talent' or make another swell of anger that would have surely resulted in violence, the bell rang.

"Time for class." Butch quipped, getting up "Can you walk, Hustler?"  
"Yes I can walk." Hustler spat.  
"Aw… I didn't do as good of a job as I had hoped. Oh well. Better luck next time."

The hustler snorted and got up, closing his coat. To anyone else, was just hiding valuable merch, and anyone who questioned him would be banned, if not snarled at. Any thoughts Butch might have had otherwise he kept to himself. He did, however, smirk triumphantly and tease him about it quietly for the rest of the day, licking his lips and toying with the tied cherry stem whenever Hustler was in his line of sight.

* * *

**Classy as always, Butch. Way to be.**

Thanks for reading!


	35. Kink

**There is no excuse for how ridiculously long this took. Well, actually there is, but you'd rather read this probably, if anyone still knows this story exists. Sorry for the wait, is what I'm trying to say – I hope this gratuitous smut sort of makes up for it.**

**Also be prepared for some filler cute because I continually suck and yet you put up with me anyway?**

**Enjoy!  
**

* * *

"Is that a vest? Are those leather? _Is that a fucking stripper pole_?"

Of all the things Butch had ever expected to say in his entire life, this was not one of them. Hell, he wasn't even expecting to ever need to_ think_ all of those words at the same time, or have them enter his head on the same day. Then again, he was never expecting to come across the sight he was currently beholding. Namely one hustler with whom he was intimately involved with, dressed in a tight pinstripe vest and tighter leather pants that looked more painted on than squeezed into. In all honesty, the man might as well have been naked. The getup hid absolutely nothing.

And to think, just minutes ago, Butch had been hurrying through the back streets to get to Francis with the day's homework and some cold medicine, concerned for his health and well being. He'd been absent lately. Ever since that first early weekend job he refused to tell Butch about, Hustler had been covering more and more shifts and drops with even less explanation. It got to the point where he missed entire days of school. Being the only kid who actually knew where HK lived (aside from Fingers, who was usually busy anyway, and offered a small favor for bringing the homework he was supposed to over as well as the load Butch was given), the teachers sort of relied on Butch to make sure that one of their students wouldn't have to be sent to summer school.

But now, in this back alley, with a schoolbag with two students worth of homework, Butch saw he had ample reason to be concerned. Just not for the reason he thought he needed to be. Francis at least had the decency to look horrified and shamed. He flushed and paled all at once, his jaw unhinging and hanging open. When he did manage to scrape his chin off the floor, he swallowed hard and groped for a response while Butch, ever the master of words, sputtered.

"Oh _shit_."  
"What the hell am I even looking at?" Butch asked, steadily slipping from shocked to terribly amused.  
"This isn't – It's not what you think!"

Butch didn't mean to laugh. Not really. But this whole scene was just so absurd. This was The Hustler – the guy who wore trench coats in the dead heat of summer. The guy who barely ever stripped down unless three sets of doors were locked. The same kid who, when forced to wear something that showed off his body, became grumpy and irritable because people took notice of how fucking hot he was. That man was standing in front of him in the most revealing outfit even Butch with his depraved mind could have never conceived. To be fair, he was embarrassed as hell about it, but _still_. He was wearing it. No matter how much it pained the hustler, Butch just _had_ to know _why_ or he'd die trying to figure it out.

"So why are you dressed like that, anyway?" Butch asked, stifling his giggles, blunt as ever.  
"I can't really tell you."  
"Some hustler thing. I get it." Butch tried his best to sound dejected. It usually got Fran to break pretty quick.  
"Switch day." Francis mumbled, looking off to the side.  
"Pardon?" Butch asked, lifting his hand to his ear.  
"Switch day." He repeated, slightly louder. The exasperated sigh that followed seemed to carry him through the haphazard explanation. "It's this stupid Hustler tradition. Basically you draw a name out of a hat and you have to dress up like the hustler you pick. It's stupid and happens only like every three years and _God_ I thought I could skip it this year but everyone I work with is an idiot and I hate them all."  
"Could be worse." Butch responded automatically, hastily slapping together some worse scenario. "Could be a dress."  
"I had to dress up like Tammy when I was eleven." Hustler deadpanned. "She wore mini skirts and hooker boots the month before so the outfit would qualify."  
And because Butch was stupid, his response was: "They found something like that in your size?"

The blurted statement had all the effects of prodding a tiger with a sharp stick between cast iron bars. It pissed the hustler off something fierce, made him snarl and puff up and look like Butch would be a snack soon, but there was no actual threat. Instead, the hustler in the strange outfit paced and eventually turned from him, trying to ignore his presence. Butch felt bad, yes, but when Francis turned he had time to stare at his ass, which he did.

There were too many things wrong with the outfit to properly categorize – first and foremost being how good the hustler looked in it. Seriously – who the fuck could pull of leather pants and a vest with no shirt? For a moment Butch considered that he might blame it on his love for Francis, but he obliterated the thought just as quickly, because this thing was just _hideous_, and he settled on the idea he was more attracted to the more… obvious parts of his friend with benefits now openly on display. Namely his ass and his dick, which were both laughably visible, and greedily ogled by the storyteller until he was caught, and then some more after that.

"So…" Butch started, hoping to steer the conversation toward something less awkward, if at all possible.  
"This was why I skipped school." The hustler grunted, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fore and middle finger, a healthy highlight of red spilling out from under it. "Not because I'm sick."  
"Oh you're sick alright." Butch spat playfully, biting his lip to conceal a snicker "Who the fuck wears a getup like that?"  
"You remember Kink, from the sex shop?"  
Butch nodded. Then he paled. "He seriously parades around in that?"  
"All day. Every day. Except holidays and clearances– then he accessorizes. Or dresses down."

Butch couldn't quite hide his snigger that time, and Fran's head snapped up to glare at him, though the effect was stunted pretty bad by the flushed face and half-frightened grey eyes alternately threatening his very existence and watering up in some very effective plea not to tell a soul. Almost immediately he felt bad for Francis and his predicament. If he were ever caught in something like that, he'd want to crawl in a hole and die too. Oh but he was having such fun looking. His eyes had strayed below the belt more often than not. Butch was honestly surprised Fran hadn't pulled the 'my eyes are up here' line out yet. Then again, he wasn't exactly looking at him – more looking at the ground as if begging it to swallow him whole.

"So he's gay?" Butch attempted yet again to move the conversation along.  
"You're _actually_ asking me that question."  
"Point taken." Butch quickly hid his face-breaking smile and changed the subject, appraising him. "You look good."  
"I look like a hooker."  
"Not really."  
"A _bizarre_ hooker."  
"That fits a little better."  
"Fuck you."  
"You have no idea how much I want to."

The statement slipped from Butch with such startling honesty it made Francis turn his head back to him. Butch didn't even have the decency to look embarrassed. Instead he looked lecherous, his eyes glued to the slick and shiny leather pants. It was enough to make the hustler want to physically rearrange his face, or at least wipe the smile off and blacken his eyes so he would _stop staring_.

"Don't get used to it." HK scoffed, attempting to hide his shame behind contempt. Familiar anger.  
"Too late." Butch countered, greedily reaching out to touch.

Francis slapped his hand away, but only once. Butch hand was splayed over his thigh, groaning as he traced muscle, blindly searching for the more obvious of lines to wrap his hand around. The hustler had grit his teeth and shut his eyes, a hiss escaping him. Butch was so close so suddenly – close enough to feel the heat of his hand, his breath washing over his neck, the heartbeat in both their throats. Francis felt his throat close, and heard Butch's open into a feral groan. Though he'd felt the exhales he was still surprised to see Butch so close, his eyes dark and altogether far too interested in him. The look confused him and made him angry to some degree. But those thoughts soon fled, all thoughts did, actually, in favor of outright giving in to the expert pawing. He didn't want to hit him, tell him to fuck off, demand he stop being so damned _obvious_ and force him to stop touching, even if he was growing hot and uncomfortable. Mostly though, he remained confused.

It was strange. He couldn't remember Butch coming on so strong before – save those times when they were separated for a long while. Then Butch was quite adamant about touching – but to be fair, so was he. Now though, having seen him not two days before and around his peripheral frequently, this sudden desire seemed out of place. Yes, he knew he was wearing provocative clothing, and yes he knew Butch could be a horny teenager like any other horny teenager – but this seemed a hell of a lot more intense than their usual hookups. Usually Butch sort of let him lead the way. Now it was Butch touching him, taking over, pushing him subtly backwards into the clean metal pole, his hand wrapped around a completely different one.

The metal pole against his back made Francis hiss in discomfort, the shock of relief to his burning body made him twitch. One hand shot up above his head, his hand wrapped firmly around the pipe. His elbow scraped against the brick wall, biting into it. His body arched off the pole and into Butch, who greedily accepted the majority of his mass with looped arms and groping hands, all heading south.

"How much is he making you charge for a night?" Butch hissed into his ear.  
"You gotta buy him out."  
"Oh?"  
"Ten items gets you a dance."  
"How about a discount. Since, you know, we're already fucking, so this is nothing new."  
"I am _not_ dancing for you." Francis spat, breath ragged.  
"Spoiled sport." He felt Butch's teeth sink into his earlobe. "I guess I could count this as a dance, even though I can't see it."  
"Prick."

Francis tried to deny the fact he was writhing against the pole, into Butch, because that would just be more humiliation he knew would haunt him. But, for all his mental reasoning, he could not make his body cooperate. Butch's endless amusement with this was not well disguised, grinned against the flushed skin of his neck, chuckled into his ear, ground against his hips. The hustler would have snorted at him for it, but it came out more like a guttural groan that Butch promptly swallowed up and gave right back.

As if Butch wasn't already being enough of an insufferable prick about the whole matter, he had the audacity to, after kissing him senseless and running his hands over the less than decent looking bulge, pull back and admire the state he'd worked the hustler into. The vest, though tight, had ridden up his stomach some and stuck skewed in place even when Francis tried to straighten himself out. The pants were an absolutely painful looking mess that Butch had yet to take his eyes off of. The entirety of the hustler was equal parts pissed and terribly horny, which made Butch lick his lips and groan loud enough to be heard while pressing himself against the opposite side of the alley, collecting his own breath and making the proper adjustments to bolt if needed.

"Damn that's a good look for you."  
"Fuck off."  
"I'm getting a dance later."  
"_Absolutely not_."

Butch laughed while edging away, close to the wall with his eyes still stuck below where Francis would have his belt if he could have possibly found a reason for one. Fran didn't do much more then frown and huff at him, straightening up against the metal pole, trying and failing to piece himself back together as a normal, composed businessman. Such was great for Butch, because it meant he could get out of the way. Rather than run off, though, Butch did the stupid thing and provoked the beast further, licking his lips and dragging his eyes over the body. Just before Francis could collect his wits and force himself to move past the painfully tight clothing to throttle the other male, Butch was taking off, waving over his shoulder and promising to meet up later.

Francis hoped he'd forget any part of this. Hell, he was hoping he could blot out this memory soon.

O/O

The crawl home from work was the worst he had in years.

There had been no customers aside from Butch for most of the day. Once the sun had set, however, he'd been flooded. Under normal circumstances, Francis would be thrilled. He made ridiculous cash and Kink's commission was larger than his percentage wise, so he really made bank. The downside to that was the humiliation he had to face. The outfit was bad enough when he squeezed into it, worse when Butch recklessly teased him about it. The chumps, though – they were the worst. They couldn't buy him out, but seeing the new dealer they tried to fuck with him anyway. Literally, in a few cases. He thought, foolishly, these people would be shy. They were bold and demanding as all hell. They badgered him long after he had quit the business, some accusing him of playing hard to get until he twisted their hand back far enough. He'd have to pay Kink a bit to get him over possibly losing a couple of customers. Every other dime was going to cover the days he was going to have to take off to get this terrible day out of his head.

Francis kicked the door shut behind him and flipped the lock, his hands going from the door to the vest buttons, popping off buttons as quickly as he could without damaging any of them. Knowing Kink, he'd want everything back intact. His stock was fine, the clothing would be too, provided he could peel himself out of it. The bent wrists and harassment aside, it wasn't to terrible a day that couldn't be cured by showering – or at least it wasn't so terrible he couldn't begin to forget about it by just ending it now, before something else went wrong.

"You're home."

Oh boy. Something else to go wrong.

The hustler sighed heavily and turned his head to the archway leading into the sitting room like it was some great and terrible effort to do so. Butch smiled at him. Francis shook his head and tried to process the picture. Butch, sans jacket and cigarettes, chewing a toothpick, lounging in the empty doorway in the dark, presumably waiting for him to come home. Had he the patience, he'd have made some joke about this being fairly serial killer like. But the hustler did not have the patients, nor the energy for such a thing. Instead, he flipped Butch off and hoped that was enough. It wasn't. The bi-haired male pushed off the wall and stood upright, greedily raking his eyes over him like he had that afternoon, going so far as to be a great deal more blatant about what he was looking at, licking his lips. Butch lifted his eyes up again and kissed the air in his direction.

"Butch- how did you get into my house?"  
"I have my ways." Butch flicked the toothpick away.  
"Great. Lovely. I'm going to bed."  
"You promised me a dance." Butch had the audacity to sound hurt behind his smile.  
"I did no such thing. Now go away I want to sleep."

In an instant Butch had sprung from the doorway and blocked his pant up the central staircase. Francis could have done any number of things – knocked him over, sidestepped him, gone up to the second floor some other way, or slept in the nearby guest room. But he was too tired to bother using anything else but his voice and maybe one hand. So he sucked in a breath and began to raise both. Butch did some shifting of his own, his lower lip between his teeth, eyes bright in the dark. Before Francis could say a word Butch laid his hand over his cock and pressed the heel of his palm forward.

The string of curses flowed out of his mouth in place of demands, in one slow _whoosh_ of breath that ended with a snarl and some sort of shove. Butch paid him no mind, far too enthralled by the way he could just see the shine from the next room outline the even more noticeable bulge. He had no doubt it was uncomfortable (hell, his own vaguely loose denims were becoming tight), but he didn't give a damn. The combined groans of tight leather and aggravated Francis rutting against his palm though he complained sort of made the storyteller high on power and control. Even hot and bothered Butch knew he could still form words, and to block that from happening he pushed his whole body forward and tilted his chin, catching the lower lip on his slack jaw between his teeth. He didn't expect there to be so much give, considering Francis was usually a wall, standing upright no matter what rammed into him. But this time he buckled and slid sideways, not quite toppling but leaning heavy and dangerous against the rail and half onto Butch, who hoped he would snap out of it soon because he couldn't support the weight. Despite this, he didn't stop kissing Francis, drawing his tongue from the half opened mouth. His free hand found its way to the bare chest and made its home there, feeling him up, pushing him up. Just in case.

"Bad day at work baby?" Butch cooed into the slacked mouth, smirking when a choked snarl interrupted him.  
"Fuck you."  
"Aw, poor thing. Lemme take care of you."

Hustler assumed this is what whores felt like with a particularly handsy, energetic client. Mildly disgusted and questioning what had gone so terribly wrong in their life to get them to this point. But Francis couldn't deny he liked it, even though he really, really would have liked to. Butch's hands had been trained to please him. They knew where to go, what to touch, how to hold. His mouth knew just how he liked to be kissed and bitten and spoken to, though the words were often breathless and unintelligible. His body knew how to sway and grind and turn his into a traitor. And Francis moaned whorishly, because fuck Butch and fuck him, he'd taught him too well.

"No. No not right- stop, Butch _no_." Francis hissed minutes too late, trying to keep Butch from outright sticking to him "Jesus Butch give me a second to at least get out of these pants _fuck_."  
"No." Butch breathed, already having entirely too much fun. "I like them."

Francis choked on hitched breath; biting down on his tongue and shoving Butch back against the railing. Like a burr, Butch hung on, one hand clasped to his neck, the other trying to circle his dick. The hustler bit him again, groaning into it like he was the one who was bitten. Butch could feel the heavy breath washing into his mouth, the stiffness under his hand and in the others stance. He didn't like either of them being so ridged and confined, and apparently neither did Francis. However, while the hustler agonized whether or not to allow himself to become unraveled, Butch did not. Butch knew exactly how to unwind the tight coils and get them both loosened up.

So h bit back, pressing up as hard as he could against him, goading him to act. He bit Francis when he tried to shy away and moaned when he pushed and pulled. It wasn't long before there were cracks in the hustler's usually stable resolve. Butch rewarded him when those cracks split. When Francis grabbed his side and pushed him hard against the banister, he rolled his hips against the leather pants. When he ripped off Butch's shirt and dug his fingers into the skin, butch moaned like a whore squeezed his hand. Because this was what they were familiar with. What Butch missed about their relationship before, and what Francis needed to clear his head. Rough and dirty fucking, angry and spontaneous.

Francis was always careful with his bruises. When they used to fight they weren't. When the hustler swung his fist it took on all the characteristics of a wrecking ball, and wherever it landed blossomed disgusting blues and yellows and stayed there like a trophy of surviving. If there was blood or broken bone underneath, then you get an extra star for pain tolerance – not that Butch ever had those to display. But these bruises – teeth and finger shaped, softer hues of blue and purple, were always hidden, because they were not badges of honor. Distinctions of shame, more like – not because of the activity, not of how – but questions of _who_ neither were willing to answer. Which was especially discouraging to the hustler, because at this angle he wanted nothing more than to sink his teeth into Butch's shoulder, into his sensitive neck and make him moan until he choked and cried.

Where this violent streak had come from, he had no idea. He blamed the leather pants.

Butch pulled away from the probing lips and teeth and tongue to suck in desperate gulps of air. He was granted little reprieve, for the taller, provoked male went straight for his throat, biting and sucking carefully out of sightlines. Even like this, fighting off his own desperation and rampant arousal, Francis knew exactly what he could get away with. But he did push it and the body further, testing how limited those limits were. His were severed, however, When Butch worked his hand back between them and found the snap and zipper holing the damnedable leather to his legs. He was constricted enough it was painful and had been painful since Butch started pawing at him. Not that it made him stop. Forcing him down did, though.

Both hands square on Butch's shoulders, wrapped around his bare skin and pressing in like clamps, Francis pressed downward. Butch resisted him, but eventually his knees buckled from the pressure and he dropped at the foot of the stairs. Butch didn't even attempt to look confused. In the next moment Butch's hand sought the zipper again (they'd gone for the railing on his way down, to keep some balance) and pulled down. Francis groaned as the leather was peeled away and he was freed, stroked by the boy on his knees. His mouth hovered over the waiting cock, but he didn't move any closer. Butch merely peered up at him, red faced and swollen lipped already. The hustler ran a hand through Butch's hair, but instead of letting the longish strands go like he normally would, he curled his fingers in and tugged Butch's head forward so his mouth pressed against the side of his dick.

"You had better fucking suck it good." The hustler rasped with all the quality of a decent porn star actor (if not a octave lower, laced with actual need) "'Cause that's all you're getting before I bend you over."

Butch didn't need to be told twice. He shifted his head, pushing back against the larger hand to better position himself. Though he had to fight for it, he really didn't care too much when it came down to performing the act. He sucked greedily, inhaling sweat and musk and leather that all mixed into some terrible concoction that had no right making him as incredibly horny as it was. He was hyper aware of everything – the lewd slurping noises he was making, the convulsions of the stomach inches above his nose, the hand wrapped firmly in his hair and scratching over his scalp, dragging his face forward. Butch could hardly take it, but he really, really wanted more.

Francis pulled his cock out of the eager mouth too quickly for Butch's liking. He'd felt it twitch and pulse in his mouth, so he knew Fran was close, and he wanted to see the taller male crumple to the floor upon completion. Not given that satisfaction, Butch huffed and whined, taking a few deep breaths. Though he'd been near the point of choking once or twice, Butch's mouth hung open for more. His jeans were too tight and he really needed the distraction. Francis had pulled out, but Butch was still able to lap at the underside of his cock and look up at him, waiting for any indication of what was coming next. Shirtless and red faced and panting, the hustler forced his head back at a sharp angle, away from his prick. For a minute he just stared, but Butch licked his lips and spread his legs out more for better balance and to alleviate some pressure, and that was enough to get diluted grey eyes to close. Butch could feel the shiver against his scalp.

Given a moment to compose himself (though Butch made it difficult, as he always did) Francis rasped something like 'turn around' or 'fuck' or some mixture of the two, pushing on his shoulder to make him do so. Butch, as always, complied readily and made a chore. He turned around and braced himself against the railing, but did nothing else. Frustrated and horny and not willing to deal with this crap anymore, the hustler grabbed Butch by the belt and yanked him backwards, tugging on his pants violently. They didn't come off as easily as he would have liked, but Butch sacrificed a hand to unbuckle his belt and undo his zipper so they at least came down to his knees. That same hand scrambled against the smooth marble of the staircase when Francis tugged him back again, holding his body up while the opposite arm locked in place, holding fast to the railing.

Of course, Francis had lied. He spat on his hand and slicked his fingers and pressed two in as gently as the situation would allow, which wasn't much at all. Not that Butch found any fault with it. He pressed back against the hands holding him in place and pushing into him. Butch was only vaguely aware of Francis behind him, muttering filthy things into his ear or somewhere near there. The various aches in his lower half hardly bothered him, but it made good reason for him to groan and wriggle and beg for more because it was _killing_ him. He continued to press the issue even after Francis hissed at him to shut the fuck up, curled his fingers, and bit his bare shoulder.

His complaining backfired however, when suddenly the weight behind him vanished at all points. Butch choked and turned, looking behind him to see where the other male had gone. However, before he could so much as let go of the railing to twist his back any more, Francis took up the space hind him again. He seized his neck and forced him down onto the marble, one knee pushing the back of Butch's thigh, spreading him wider, one knee on the first step, the other on the floor. The smaller barely had time to brace himself against the flat stone and the railing before there was a pressure inside him again. Three fingers, slicked with something more than spit, pushing in and curling and spreading apart. After a short time Butch wasn't complaining just to get on HK's nerves. He really did want desperately to be filled.

Luckily enough for him, the hustler was at the end of his rope as well. One keening wail from the storyteller had him growling and pulling his fingers out. He sought the bottle of lube he'd pilfered from Kink's stock (he'd pay him back alter – sex now), and coated his hand, then his prick. Butch, the bastard, shook his ass and barked at him to hurry up, only to get smacked for his troubles. Another bruise to hide among the several ones dotted along him was hardly cause for concern. Francis' lack of care for them was – but he'd speculate on it later. Now he was busy. Lining up his cock head and pressing it into the stretched opening, he barely gave time for either of them to breathe before he was in.

Butch forced out whatever breath he had left onto the stairway in some sort of garbled noise. Now that he was looking (and really, he couldn't look anywhere else without discomfort), the marble looked rather nice. Said thought was far off and misplaced, but it stuck for a minute. Butch thought about telling Francis, but when he opened his mouth a breathy moan fell out instead and the thought went with it, dampening the cool stone with hot, forced breath. Whatever it was that he was going to say, Francis probably wouldn't have paid it any mind anyway.

He was bent forward as Francis drove in the next time, nearly cracking his face in the stair railing, though he fixed that problem by bending his arm to keep from smacking directly into it. Far be it from Butch to actually tell Francis to stop. Oh no, that would be so far from what he wanted. This was what he liked. This roughness, the fingers digging into his body, the hard slaps and heavy cock pulling him apart from the inside. He made sure Fran kept going to, hissing and goading him on with absolute nonsense he spilled over the floor. His free hand, what braced him going down, strayed to his cock while the hustler busied himself with fucking him as hard as he could into the stairway. His belt scraped along the floor and dug into his knee, but neither male paid it any mind.

Butch had been the first to spill. A heavy, broken cry fell out of him, between the banisters. His come stained the stairs and though his legs were weak, Butch had enough presence of mind not to collapse on his own mess. Francis wasn't far behind, gripping his hips tightly as he rammed in the last few timed, burying deep and growling above him. Butch's face was in the stone, pressed harder by the heavier body above him. He still felt the thick fingers curled into his skin, the softening cock inside him, the slight tremors. It was hard for him not to fall over, but Butch managed – so long as Francis didn't throw any more weight onto him.

Luckily for Butch, he the hustler stayed upright, though shaky on his feet. Francis turned him over and pinned him to the stairs after a few moments of heavy breathing, as if Butch was about to get up and run somewhere on weak legs. The edges dug into Butch's back and imprinted themselves on his spine, but he didn't notice that until later, after Francis pulled his mouth off of him. Still panting, he didn't pull away that much, didn't care that he was breathing in Butch's used air or sort of still kissing him. It was nice to finally have some relief, and Butch was keeping quiet for once, even if he did have some satisfied little smirk on his face.

Eventually, Butch shifted underneath Francis, his smirk waning to a grimace until the larger of the two got the picture and stopped compressing him into the cold stone. Butch twisted back the way his spine was supposed to go and pulled his pants up, leaving them unbuckled. Unwilling to d the same (and go through the torture of squeezing into them again), Francis left his undone and stumbled with Butch, leaning heavily on him, up the stairs. They got up to Fran's room in silence, pausing to get their balance a few too many times. But they made it, and they collapsed on the hustler's bed without bothering to undress further or even curl up under the covers. The last thing Francis remembered before he finally let the day finish was Butch's head pressing up underneath his chin and some satisfied sigh, though he wasn't sure who it came from.

O/O

The first words Francis heard when he woke up were "I win" – and had that not been confusing enough he found himself in his bed, naked, with Butch wearing his clothes (his shirt specifically, far too big for him, hanging off his shoulders) and looking entirely too awake to be the grumpy, morning-hating storyteller Francis knew pretty well. So, rather than answer, he looked past the smiling face and manhandled his clock, blinking at the numbers until they made some sort of sense, and then promptly dropped the time-telling device on the floor and his head back onto the pillow.

Butch, unaffected by the sleepy Francis, picked up the clock and crawled onto the sleepy body, messing with the hustler's bedhead until the larger male grunted and batted at the air nearby to get him to stop. Butch, knowing when to quit, gave up on that and burrowed back under the covers. Hustler's shirt was warm and soft and smelled like him and his pants did too and Butch had decided that even if they were too big he was probably going to steal them or at least sleep in it for a while. Francis, in his bear-like ways this morning, paid him no mind when he curled up close and tugged the pillow out from under his heavy head.

For a while, Butch let Francis rest. It wasn't that he wanted to – he was actually rather bored. But he was in some pain. His ass and jaw hurt, he had several marks on him that clothing that fit him would cover, and he'd scraped his chin on the stairs or railing some time last night. It wasn't the worst he'd been dealt – by Fran especially- but it was enough to keep him from being a continual pest. But that couldn't go on forever, and before too long his fingers were in the hustler's severe bedhead again, picking at it and smoothing it out. Francis eventually sighed and gave up on sleeping rolling over some and looking at him while Butch groomed his awful hair. Butch, ever filled with thoughts, spat out the first one that came to mind in a far too cheery voice which Francis, used to this by now, answered without even really thinking.

"You never danced for me."  
"Mm. You didn't buy anything."  
"What about that discount?"  
"I fucked you on the stairs." HK yawned. "For free. And gave you a bed to sleep in. For free. There's your discount."

Butch was chuckling though the hustler's tired deadpan. Still his fingers were in Francis' hair, threading through it. Without the gel and styling or whatever the fuck he did to it, Fran's hair was soft and kind of floppish. Francis didn't stop the fixing up of his head or the subsequent head massage. Considering his previous day and night, this was enormously relaxing, and very much needed. If only he could keep Butch's mouth shut for another hour or two. Then he'd be golden. Unluckily for him, Butch was wife awake, and eventually stared talking again to fill up what he thought was empty silence (Francis would have called it comfortable, but that was just him, he supposed).

"How much do you think those pants run for?"  
"Butch, I'm surprised at you." Hustler admonished blandly "I mean I knew you liked them last night, but I thought that was because I was in them."  
"Actually I was thinking about getting them for you." When Francis didn't answer, Butch played cute, rolling onto his back and tilting his head so he was looking at the hustler upside down. His frown wasn't nearly as terrifying from that angle, or that single, slightly bloodshot eye.  
"You're shitting me."  
"Early holiday present." He frowned "No good? What the hell else am I supposed to get you? You're a bitch to shop for and my family is a hundred miles long. Give me a fucking clue."  
"You want to get me leather pants."  
"Yes."  
"Just because it turns you on."  
"Also yes."

Francis smacked him with a pillow, rolling over onto his stomach so his arm was banded over Butch's chest by the time he wrestled himself from the goosefeather – cotton blend. Once the other male unearthed himself and attempted to look pissy, Francis shot him a grin, and watched with no end of amusement as the mask of anger broke, brittle and dissolved, until Butch was smiling too.

Despite the early hour he was struck with some strange though familiar twisting want in his stomach, and because of the early hour he didn't really register his actions. Namely the raising of his hand and tracing the outline of Butch's face with his index and middle fingers, ignorant of the strange, half frightened look on the storyteller's face, dragging them from his temple over his cheekbone to the soft square of his jaw. Eventually the hustler's larger hand slipped over the back of the sensitive neck and pulled him forward to the point where they bumped noses. Francis made some small noise that could have been a chuckle if it weren't so short lived, and finally pressed his mouth to Butch's. No more, no less. Just simple contact. And, after a moment of hesitation, Butch gave into it too.

Caught in this strange space just short of lucid dreaming, Francis wasn't exactly sure how to react. He knew where he was, what he was, and who he was with. But how was undefined, and why he was reacting the way he was also remained a mystery. So he pressed on, doing what he felt was right. He dropped his head, kissing just below his ear, then at the junction of his neck and shoulder, then finally the shoulder itself before burying his nose into the smooth, pale skin and inhaling. He'd lost the barest trace of cigarette smell that usually hung about him, instead carrying the short tinge of soap and bed linins and his detergent and, of course, his usual somewhat sweet scent. Never had he had a dream so vivid he could smell – feel, yes, taste maybe, but not smell. Confused, he shifted his hand over Butch's side and caught a bit of flesh between his thumb and forefinger, squeezing.

"Ow. Dick." Butch hissed in his ear, wonderfully close, real.  
"So I'm not dreaming." Francis replied blearily, not bothering to raise his head, instead stroking the pinched spot in an attempt to soothe it.  
"You're supposed to pinch yourself, ass."

Despite the grumpy response, Butch blinked, trying to eye the hustler without giving himself a headache, which proved difficult given their positioning. He swallowed thickly, somehow stuck between liking the comfort and warmth being sandwiched between his arm and his bed and becoming panicked over what the hell Francis could possibly mean by what he just said. Did he dream of things like this? Did he really dream of something so simple? Surely he couldn't have admitted he liked _just_ holding him. That would be odd. That would be something Butch would have wanted, with his stupid unspoken attachment. This was the kind of thing he hated dreaming about because he always woke up and felt cold afterward.

It had happened before between them, so it was entirely unheard of. But it was just those few moments. After a long session. After a long day. During a long movie. Sometimes because he was alone most of the time and just didn't feel like doing much else after making out. Butch wasn't an exception or something special –was he?

The questions stampeded through Butch's mind enough to interfere with his ability to rest as easily as the hustler did. It was no better than those nights at home when Francis would root himself deeply in his thoughts and just not go away, not let him rest. It made him feel awful and scared and stupid, and the feelings were creeping up the back of his throat like bile now that the object of his desire and love was half draped over him, weighing on him physically too. Francis' sleepy strange behavior wasn't helping the situation any. He had almost regained it, that contentment with the rough, angry sex and nothing more. But now he was fucking it all up by being so damned good and sweet to him. His heart hurt perfectly and he thought if he were any less jaded he might start crying. Fucking puberty and hormones were doing a fucking number on him. He hated this, he hated this, _he hated this so fucking much_.

And yet Butch clung to it, to him, and fought to keep his breathing even, shutting his eyes so he wouldn't have to look anymore, forcing himself to go back to sleep.

And Francis didn't notice the torment he was going through, only the mildly confused but far too sleep thoughts in his head about how nice his was, how good this felt, how _right_. He'd question himself in the afternoon, perhaps, but for now he simply held a bit tighter and breathed in, the idea of waking early thoroughly vetoed in lieu of sleeping in, sunken in the blankets and warmth with Butch, for however long he could.

* * *

**Smut I might or might not have forgotten how to write properly aside, this does have some bearing on the plot, so I hope it's at least a decent enough read – especially after keeping you all waiting for so long.**

**Thank you so much for sticking with me. You guys really are the best.**


	36. Conclusions

**Okay so. Uh, no one is interested in my excuses. I know that. But thanks to everyone who bothers to stumble across this again. I can't promise quick updates or much of anything really. But there will be something occasionally. That much I can give.**

**Good luck in whatever you guys are up to. I hope you can wish me the same : D**

**Just a note: Any hustlers mentioned that are not Fingers are just names I made up. Tammy is your friendly neighborhood plot device. Don't worry too much about them.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

It was a slow day at the Hustler Headquarters. Francis had essentially closed up his corner for the night, triple checking his ledger and money before locking up and stowing away profits. He had made all the worthwhile deals there was, and most of the other hustlers had gone home. It was only him and a select few, waiting on movers to get the good shit into their trucks or get it to shop. Problem was, they were running really late. So they were essentially stranded, fighting off boredom whatever way they can. Dice was learning tricks from Ace, Sly and Slick were trying to coordinate their ball-in-cup routine, Fingers was talking to his contacts back in Jersey, and poor Tammy had been reduced to watching soap operas on that perfectly good TV no one seemed to want.

Hustler, meanwhile, had taken to resisting wandering around aimlessly. He had nothing to do, which frustrated him to no end. Francis didn't like to be without things to do or people to schmoose or talk shop with. Though there were people around, they were keeping to themselves, and none of them seemed interested in making deals or meaningless small talk (truthfully, Francis wasn't interested in that either, but he'd put up with it for some contact). So he found ways to keep himself busy, even if it was menial crap that kept him entertained. Anything was better than wandering.

Currently, he was sweeping.

Sometimes Hustler cursed his work ethic for the very same reason he grumbled at particularly heavy bit of debris. Stubborn and stuck to routine. It wasn't often his workload diminished before he was out of steam. Running a little behind made him work harder the next day. It was a pattern he'd repeated for years now, and it worked for him. Except on these off days where he broke even. It was never pleasant, and he was often at a loss of what to do when those circumstances arose. It wasn't like he could relax or just stop and do normal people things. Work was his everything.

Sweeping was the worst, but only, job he could find.

It was the kind of menial work he'd grown out of at age nine. But it kept his hands busy. The issue he had with sweeping or restocking or practicing the cup trick was jut that – it _only_ kept his hands occupied. His mind, without work, wandered off to strange places that were never comfortable. Often he'd give up halfway through and force someone to talk with him to keep his thoughts from straying, but looking around the warehouse for the eighth time proved no one looked to be in talking mood. Considering he'd been sweeping the past spot for ten minutes, Francis set the broom aside and sat on a crate and essentially gave up the fight against his mind.

Surprisingly, it settled in a familiar, somewhat comfortable place.

It started out innocently enough. He was going over all the work he'd done for the day, which lead to the work he could only do tomorrow. Among the menial little tasks like laundry and getting more coffee filters up popped the little manner of a tab owed to him by one shadow skulking smoking storyteller. He knew Butch would probably mutter some excuse and get away with another week unpaid, because that was what Butch usually did unless the hustler insisted upon payment or Butch was in the mood to pay in less monetary ways. He attempted to move on from this train of thought with a shrug of his shoulders and some off little condescending smile Butch would have punched him for if he saw it. But he seemed fixated for the moment.

Could be worse.

Butch's image came to mind first, mostly because Francis' thoughts followed the cigarette trail – fingers first, then hand, then coat and arm and torso and scarred neck and smirking face and back down over the belt and legs and boots crossed one over the other and the whole thing up against a brick wall half in shadow. Butch was a pretty good looking guy when the hustler thought about it in times like these. He'd stopped trying to deny he was attracted to Butch because he was a male after their arrangement had been settled. Actually, a little before that, but it had been confirmed then, in his bed, on top of the other. He was attracted to that body the same way he was attracted to most bodies like it, give or take anatomic differences. He'd always liked the people he decided to sleep with that had long legs and a lithe frame and a decent ass. Most of the girls he'd been with had all that, give or take a few random lays just to blow off steam. Butch had all those qualifiers, so physical attraction wasn't surprising. Not anymore, anyway.

The snag was in that Francis had never really looked at other guys to see if he'd feel the same. It wasn't fair, and he knew he might as well, to expand his horizons and future business opportunities. But he didn't. He really hadn't seen any need to. Any guys who asked him for things had cash or something interesting, and the couple he'd ever had offer backed down or came up with cash right before he had any chance to cash in. Not that he cared. It really wasn't even worth it for him to look. Butch satisfied him, which was an odd thing in itself. He hadn't needed or really wanted to seek out other people to screw. Not for a long time, anyway.

But that was all useless anyway. Those minimal tastes meant shit. What Francis liked was sex and money and working.

But he was still stuck on Butch, it seemed. Not that it was a bad place. Maybe, if he got a little too into what he was thinking about, but for now it was a nice image and a nice thought. Good contrast to the usual bullshit his mind dug up and went wild over.

Butch smiled at him in his head and Francis shook it off, setting the broom aside. Now he was lifting boxes, moving them, organizing them for the millionth, unneeded time. Butch was attractive. That was settled. Physically speaking, anyway. He had to admit, among other things, beyond the bedroom door and back alleys, Butch was a good guy. Sort of scary, kinda creepy, weirdly obsessive, but not bad. He like to tell lies and scare people, but his intention was never to harm. He had this strange charm about him that made people trust what he was saying, a sort of underground guide that was willing to tell them everything they never wanted to hear. And to think Francis had to work for years to build up that blind trust people shoved all too willingly at Butch. Then again, Butch wasn't giving them things that broke. He was giving them ideas.

Still though, Francis liked him well enough, even when he wasn't on his knees or back or stomach. He'd given up disputing that too. Butch treated him with a childishness no one else bothered to. He was honest and fair and funny sometimes. Open and giving and willing to do nothing, which sometimes meant everything to a guy like Francis, who had to act that way all day every day, and sometimes needed to be selfish in ways that didn't get him green paper. Never one had Butch complained about anything that mattered. A twisted arm here, pulled hair there, a few too dark hickies in the wrong places – but not that he was talking too much or too little. He listened, which was odd, considering how often the walls would do the same. But they couldn't offer him a mile afterwards or terrible takeout Butch loved.

Only problem as far as the hustler could see was that he was denied every chance to return the favor. He'd never go so far as to say Butch was goth – more like goth_ic_, sort of, not quite there. There were so many barriers Francis was up against sometimes he felt like he was dealing with a wall. Sometimes Butch was so closed off and distant it upset him. Francis didn't want him so far off. He wanted him close, personal, cared for.

Such set off alarm bells. He could never understand why.

Pausing his shifting of boxes, the hustler shifted and leaned up against one of them, drumming his fingers on the top. He never could understand that one point. It felt like he was stuck in place, spinning wheels in mud, trying to claw his way through the thick goop to get to Butch's side and get him to just accept the fucking friendship already. So it went a little deeper than that. Big deal. But every time Butch looked away or twitched when Francis laid a hand on his stomach or broke off conversation or contact, Fran felt this pain in him. Like he'd dome something wrong. And yes, he'd wronged Butch plenty. He couldn't deny that (and wouldn't ever tell him, either), but there was something there he could do. Something he felt _needed_ to be done. Like Butch was more important than any thing, person, or deal he could ever bother to think about, no matter how big. And in a lot of ways, Francis assumed Butch really was worth that high standing.

Francis chuckled. The way he was thinking, it made it sound like, well, like he loved the guy or something.

Heh.

Francis laughed at himself, sitting on the box he'd been leaning on, hands behind him, holding him up. He basked in the florescent glow fifty feet above him. How stupid. Loving Butch. What a crazy idea. He'd have to be out of his mind. Love was reserved for people who cared about each other, who didn't leave each other with aching memories or broken bones. Oh he knew it wasn't fairytale. Nothing ever was. But love was a little much, still too good of a thing to have. There were fights, but they weren't deathly serious. Speaking wasn't always easy, but there were secrets told and shared to make the burden a little lighter. There wasn't always an easy road, but the presumed pair stuck it out anyway. But that sounded a lot like friendship too. There was probably sex and even if it wasn't great it was still a part of something deeper than just a friendship. Something a lot deeper, actually. Intimacy, some sort of bond. Like lying on the couch for hours doing nothing, then suddenly fighting over the remote. The moments after hot and heavy sex where you couldn't breathe but still managed to smile at him. Not saying anything when he starts to light up, but watching him pause and put away the lighter and cigarette and taking out a toothpick instead because he knows you hate it.

Francis laughed a little at the ceiling, eyes closed. Stupid. So stupid.

Familiar.  
Interesting.

All little more than interesting. Francis eased his eyes open and pushed his head forward, square on his shoulders, looking out into the mostly empty warehouse. A little more like he was about to keel over and die his heat was racing so fast. He swallowed hard, choking. A little more like he couldn't breathe. His mouth parted and in came a rushed breath, scared lips trembling. A little more like holy fuck was he that blind? He had to be there was no excuse for that. After all those nights with Butch -_only Butch_- all the time invested into him. All the stupid stories he'd listened to, the tabs he let him run up, the nights they spent in the same bed. All the harbored jealousies against girls who occupied Butch's time and incredible worry over his reputation before how own and overwhelming calm when he spent that time beside him. It was so stupid it had to make sense. Butch wasn't a friend or business partner or some fuck buddy. Butch was actually _important_ to him. Butch was someone he worried about and lost sleep over. Butch was somebody who he… he…

He loved him.  
_He loved Butch_.

He couldn't shut his eyes and banish those thoughts. The dragged him under, drowning him in the obvious. His hands shook and he leg began to bounce, heavy thudding against the crate and floor. His heat hurt and his throat cracked and he coughed, spitting up dusty old expectations. Something split open in him, raw and oozing. He felt warm in the wrong places, up his back, his neck. His fingers were cold and his stomach ached. He didn't want to move. He'd vomit. He'd vomit out _something_. His heart probably. It was bleeding hard in his throat. Francis swore he tasted copper. And still his mind assaulted him, beating him with truths he didn't know he knew, forcing him to watch himself in memories, screaming _Look, idiot. Do you see it now? Do you see?_

"Hey, HK? You doing okay?"

Francis' head snapped up and he regarded the hustler in the green trench coat. He swallowed and tried to stand, uncurling from the half hunched, probably manic-looking position. He decided against standing, firmly perched on the crate, clearing his throat. He'd pitch over and crack his head open and then everyone would see how much of a fucking idiot he was.

"Dude, you look kinda sick. Need a ride?"  
"N-No. No I'm… Can I ask you something?"  
"Yeah, sure HK." Fingers said, cautious, watching him. "What's up?"  
"Have you ever been so sure of something and then… and then it all changed. Like- like instantly." He snapped his fingers "Like _that_. Without warning?"

Fingers tilted his head to the side slightly, regarding his fellow hustler. He seemed desperate. Scared and worried. It was in the slight lowering of his shoulders, that something unusually expressive in normally hard, cold eyes. He looked his age for a change, or at least like a kid his age who just crashed the car and who knew his dad was gonna kill him. Something like it – that fear that made someone so sick it physically bothered them. Hustler banded an arm around his stomach and Fingers backed up. He didn't want to be especially right, and it bothered him to see his closest partner looking so ill.

"I'm not sure what you're getting at, man." Fingers started, risking a hand on Hustler's shoulder "You lose a deal or something? 'Cause you know, it happens to everyone, even the big dogs. Don't beat yourself up over a bad investment. You'll bounce back."  
"S'not a deal." He choked and coughed and shook his head "Not… not money."  
"Is this about the kid with the weird hair that got you to sell smokes?"  
"_No_." He snapped, sudden. Fingers frowned.  
"It better not be." Fingers quipped, "'Cause if that sonuvabitch ripped you off he's gonna get a visit and he ain't gonna like who's knockin'."  
"Not- no it's not Butch, okay. It's… It's just hard to explain. Forget I said anything." Hustler didn't move. Fingers was holding him down.  
"Right. Okay. To answer your question – no. Never had a problem with a person suddenly changing. If I did, I dropped 'em. Easy. But I've seen sufferin' over it on the soap operas Tammy watches. Why don't you go ask her? She probably knows the pattern or something."  
"Thanks." The hustler deadpanned, like his old self "You're a big help."  
"Always glad to be of assistance – oh! And don't forget you owe me for that Wazoo shipment and the Brazilian coffee."

Francis made a face at him and shrugged off Finger's hand, who slapped him on the back a few times and told him to take it easy. He pushed off the box and they separated, Finger to take a call, Francis to mull things over.

He wasn't as sick as he was before, but things still hurt. There was so much hanging in the air now, off his back but settling around him, keeping him pinned. Francis had no idea what to do with himself, or with Butch. Undoubtedly things would be awkward. He couldn't just decide he loved the guy and tell him. Something like that required at least something that resembled tact. Worse than that, what if he was wrong? There were a lot of chances he could be. He didn't know if Butch would feel the same. Hell, he didn't even know for sure if he was. He was only a teenager, after all. But still, he sort of felt like he really, really was in love, only it hurt a lot more than he thought it would. Once it was out there in the open, he couldn't ever take it back. He'd be screwed. Everything would be. Even if Butch sort of went along with it, nothing guaranteed it would work out. His mind raced ahead and begged him to trust everything would, but he'd long ago restricted those ambitions after they cost him half his profits on a risky sale. Never again.

So he was stuck with all this kicked up feeling in the air around him like dust, choking him, daring him to make a move. Butch wasn't going to come forward. He had no reason to, unless he was harboring some secret affection. Francis felt stupid for considering that. On the other hand, Francis sure as hell wasn't going to be the one to spill his guts out of nowhere in case he was being an idiot about this. But something in him ached to be done. Some bridge, or at least a plank across the water. A good show of faith. A little hint. You know, just in case he was right on the money on both cases. Just in case there was some glimmer of happily ever after, even if he was to jaded to see it.

Tammy, in all her wisdom, chose this time to leap onto his back and cling to him. Considering how his body was reacting, this was a terrible idea, and the normally wall-like hustler spent a good five minutes wheeling around trying to get his balance and stop everything from hurting or pitching over face first into concrete.

"So HK." She drawled, ignoring his failing arms and cursing "I was wondering. You still take three payments? 'Cause I was gonna cut down, but I don't wanna be the _only_ one 'cause that's lame. So you still do? Or did you cut down?"  
"What?"  
"I was _saying_" Tammy scrambled a bit, hooking her legs around his middle and her arms around his neck. "Do you still take cash, grass, or ass? You know, for payment. I never see you with anything but the dead presidents sooo…."

Francis stopped trying to pry her off his back. It dawned on him, lighting up his face, driving away the doubt, if only for a bit. A show of good faith.

"Tammy. Tammy you are the most brilliant person alive." Francis stated, every bit as confident and affectionate as one sibling teasing another.  
"Well I knew that already. So answer me. Or I bite you." She bit the air near his ear and made a growling noise.  
"No. No I don't. Just cash. Or credit. You know."  
"Yeah. Why the sudden change then? Is it 'cause I'm a trend setter? Huh huh huh c'mon tell meee."  
"I got my reasons."

_A reason.  
__One very, very good one.  
_

* * *

**HE FINALLY GETS IT. THANK GOODNESS. Still dumb about it, but hey, progress. **

**Thanks for reading!****_  
_**


	37. Handhold Foothold

**Remember that step forward like a month ago? Yeaaaah. **  
**They're going to be slow on this. Partially because my ability to update is utter hell, and partially because they are thicker than the earth's crust. **

**In any case, thanks for stopping in again. **  
**Enjoy! **

* * *

So things hadn't been going so well lately.

Just shy of two weeks stumbling out of the Hustler Headquarters with his head and heart heavy with thoughts and made up scenarios, everything inside and out having to do with the already somewhat precarious relationship Francis had with Butch began a slow coast from what the hustler considered the highest point. His giving a name to what he had unwittingly felt for the storyteller had tipped the balance toward his side, and they were both thrown off, flailing wildly but unwilling to grasp for the other.

Trepidation wasn't something either of them handled well when it was out of their hands. Butch only used it in his master works, inflicting it on the listeners rather than himself. Francis used it as an earmark for a bad investment, or one that required a great deal more thought. When they came across it in other people, alarm bells went off. Butch because he was naturally suspicious, Francis because he was incredibly paranoid about the character of the people he associated with, and even customer-merchant interaction was something he didn't dare take lightly.

Something had altered between them, however small. They were both on edge about and around each other. They both knew it was foolish not to trust someone they trusted implicitly for so long, but there was something off now. Francis knew it was his shoulders the blame landed on. His realization weeks ago had altered his behavior, and because Butch was a secret creature of habit he'd reacted to the change badly, like a moody cat. The hustler felt bad, but it was hard for him to adjust. Loving someone didn't come naturally to him.

The question now remained how to go about it. He knew the source, but it wasn't something he could confront. It was too fragmented. Between his own involvement and Butch as the innocent bystander and the possibility of hormones doing serious damage, Francis was afraid to make any move, even a beneficial one. He toyed with the idea of saying what he'd come to realize, but at the same time he didn't want to elicit an extreme reaction to counterbalance his extreme realization. Aside from the thought of rejection making him physically enraged and pained, Francis did like their arrangement. If he altered the contract now, Butch didn't have to resign He could up and leave. And even if he didn't – if they gave this a try – that slow fizzle out into nothing just might ruin him. The hustler had it happen before with him and lesser people. He carried Butch too high to let that happen.

Lucky for the both of them, appearances were easily kept up, even if they knew something below friendly smiles and pats were off kilter, lips twitching the wrong way, eyes not meeting, the weight of their hands too light on each others shoulders.

It didn't help that Francis was, above all these bad feelings, pretty damn sure he was in like with Butch. Perhaps it was love, but he wasn't sure. Again, he had no idea what that was like. He'd assume he was similar to what he was supposed to be feeling in place of the strange nervousness he felt now.

He'd taken to wandering, partially because Butch did the same thing, and it seemed like a good idea. It numbed his hands and thoughts until they stopped bothering him, and when they thawed it usually was settled on something less annoying, the pinpricks worked out of his hands and mind with a little flexing. He was usually able to sleep after that. Sometimes though, like tonight, walking just seemed like the best thing to do. His business hadn't suffered due to the somewhat frequent all nighters yet, so he wasn't worried. Perhaps he felt a little lonely, walking in the dark like this. Maybe heartsick. Maybe that's what led him here, in a familiar alley near Kelso's, in the company of the one thing giving him so much elation and trouble, hunched in on himself as he tried to avoid the wind.

Francis stood in the mouth of the alley for a few minutes, waiting out the wind and billows of smoke. He could hear Butch shivering from here. In what was becoming a rapidly developing, strengthening, still unsettling pattern, Francis approached Butch. He didn't touch him yet. He just blocked part of the cold air, sniffling at the smoke that ended up in his nose. Butch smiled at him for his efforts. Francis smiled back. One heavy hand made its way to the smaller male's shoulder, settling there, warming it through the coat. Butch made no move to look up at him. One hand was firmly buried in his armpit, the other in the crook of his arm, let out cautiously to pull the cigarette from his lips so he could exhale.

"If you quit smoking then you wouldn't freeze."  
"Bite me." Butch replied, cheerfully bland "I don't harp on your bad habits."  
"Yes you do. You constantly bug me about me working too hard."  
"You do. That shit will kill you."

Francis huffed and let it alone. He knew better to get into fights over Butch and his wordsmithy. He let it lie and let him smoke, remaining for no reason. This was what was beginning to bother him. It wasn't that he hadn't done this before. It was that he was noticing things more now. Adding more weight to them. He'd never been especially literary, but these times struck him as the kind of thing teachers made students over analyze for critical essays. The kind authors rambled on about for half a page before adding any action or dialogue. Francis wondered if Butch thought of the moments like these like that. He wondered when his life had become a Board of Ed pick for English Lit.

Their relationship before had been based on action and reaction. Francis approached, Butch backed up. Butch threw a punch, Francis twisted his arm. Butch leaned up and kissed him, Francis returned it, and then fucked him into a wall sometimes. Now there were no cues. The hustler had always thought there would be something for him to pick up on, but just when he had come to realize they were there, he didn't have a single fucking one to play off of. He was flying blind, and to him such was inexcusably stupid. Then again, it was his only option. So, in light of what little choices he had, Francis clasped his hands around Butch's, holding them together palm-to-palm, fingers alternating and sandwiched between each other.

It prompted a reaction immediately. Not a big one, but enough. Francis felt at home then, with the cause and effect. Butch had just glanced at his captured hand and inhaled around the cigarette in his teeth, but dammit, it was something.

"What are you doing?"  
"You're freezing." Francis stated, "I'm helping."  
"Yeah. But why?"

Francis really didn't have an answer. He left it blank, filling the air with breath. There had been too much turning over in his head, sluggish with the cold, to think up a proper response to much of anything. He squeezed the hands instead, shifting his palms a little to provide a bit of friction heat. The backs of his fingers were growing cold now. Butch let the cig fall from his mouth and onto the floor between them, crushing it under his boot.

For whatever reason. Butch kept looking from the ground back up to the hustler, who was looking at Butch's pinked hands. By the time Francis noticed Butch's looks, he'd tried not to make them obvious. They dodged eye contact for a while, standing in silence together, not quite holding hands. When they finally snagged on each other, Butch leaned back a little. His back brushed against the wall. His head tilted up, slightly to the side. He licked his lips and that really wasn't a good reason to, but it was enough to make Francis lean in slowly, watching Butch's face. They both hesitated, too close to back away, far enough to remain wary of going forward. He nodded, giving permission he'd already granted.

Butch's mouth was cold. His teeth and tongue and the inside of his lip were all cold when he ran his tongue over them. Only his breath was hot, what Francis attributed to leftover fire smoke. Francis liked him this way. It was familiar. It made him shiver for reasons he could understand. When they parted, Butch wouldn't let him stray. He curled his hands into fists inside the hustler's grip and pecked his lips, the back of his jacket scraping against the wall. Francis followed him, the cold of the brick seeping into his shoulder, pushing Butch into the side of the building until he parted and turned his head down, small clouds rising from his mouth that didn't make the hustler snort and turn away.

"Better?"  
"Much." Butch shook his hands out from between Francis' and brought them to the warmer skin underneath the coat's high collar, then around past his throat, inwards over his chest, under the lapels of his coat. His fingers were still freezing. "Thanks."

The hustler didn't say anything. Instead he reached between them, undoing the tie to his coat, allowing Butch to take up the space his coat fell away from. Butch didn't exactly fit in perfectly, but he tried, sliding right up against his front comfortably. He shivered because Butch was chilled and so was his clothing, but he was warm enough to share and Butch melted right in. He debated, perhaps stupidly, to close the coat around them both and remain there until they got sick of each other again. It wouldn't happen, he was sure, but he lowered his head to pillow on Butch's head and inhaled, his nose cold compared to the warm scalp.

Silence lasted so long between them it became comfortable again. It occurred to the taller male that this was the most time they'd spent together in weeks, and yet he still wasn't satisfied. Immediately he thought to lure him back to bed, which was probably the wrong thing considering where it had gotten them before, and at most it would be a stopgap before things became odd and stilted again. Desperate anyway, he tried it.

"Your ears are cold too." Francis commented into said reddened ear. Before Butch could shiver again he drew the shell of it carefully between his teeth, breathing hotly over the rest. Butch moaned, pushing his cold nose into his collarbone, which prompted a small chuckle from the hustler. He rubbed Butch's back and wrapped his arms around the smaller body, swaying in the cold. Butch made some amicable noise and brought his hands to rest at the small of Francis' back, balled into fists, gripping tight. The way they were standing, if given too much thought, was less of a way to get warm and more a lovers embrace, but the hustler was keeping quiet about it. If Butch noticed, he didn't say it either.

Lapsed in an easy silence, it was too tempting to get lost in it. However, Francis closed his eyes anyway and swallowed down the notes he wanted to hum. There was suddenly a lot he wanted to say ranging from apologies to heartfelt goop that Butch, ever the literary agent, would laugh at until he cried. The silence as it stood around them was goo go to let go of in favor of just anything. Butch stopped midway through a tired mumble to keep it untouched. Francis just couldn't take it. He was never one for too much quiet to begin with, even if it was comfortable. The wind and the breathing body below him were okay supplicants, but given the temptation to say something, anything, or worse –too much – was heavy behind the quiet. So maybe he took the low road, copping out, but it was something, and the more he spoke the better he felt, like something had healed over enough for him to lift his head and look down at the top of the bi-colored hair and smile and speak frankly.

"If you put those icicles you call fingertips anywhere near by balls I'll kick your ass."  
"Well excuse me for trying to warm my poor, frostbitten hands on your hot body core whatever." Butch spat, easy and amused. "It's where all the heat is."  
"You are more than welcome to warm up, but not at my expense. Want to go inside?"  
"No. I want to stand out here and freeze."  
"Okay."  
"You're a dick." Butch pushed his nose back into Francis' open throat. "Be a gentleman and take me home."  
"I wasn't aware we were headed to prom."  
"We're not." Butch spat curtly, "I just wanna mooch off your rich people's fancy heat systems."  
"Like the heated seats in my car?"  
"… I will let you fuck me as long and hard as you want if you let me in your car. Like right now."

Francis, already laughing, temporarily fixed of his preoccupation with the unknown, of his foreign awkwardness in his own skin, backed up off Butch and offered a smile and a hand to lead him away. Butch happily accepted both.

* * *

**You two are impossible I mean seriously. One step forward, two steps back.**  
**This thing is like 80 chapters for a reason people**

**Also Butch's birthday was like a week ago. Uhm. Sorry Butch. Happy belated birthday here have HK being less of a dick?**  
**Yeah that works.**

**Thanks for reading. **


	38. Of Slow Days and Payment Options

**Okay, quick little filler update because I'm swamped with work and, because I can't focus on anything for any length of time, here's this. Not filled with plotty bits but it's got something in there. The next chapter is pretty vital. You'll know what I mean.**

**Enjoy.**

* * *

It wasn't often Hustler made bad judgments. Usually he was a decent judge of whatever he came across: character, investment, and overall what would net him the greatest or most pleasing return. Today was not one of those days. He'd underestimated the popularity of Senor Fusion among the general population (especially his peers) after all these years and seemingly repeated storylines. So he'd remained open the day of the newest movie premiere, thinking that there would be a fair few that would wait out the day, or avoid it all together.

The three customers he'd had all day were proving his choice a terrible one. He stayed open because of stubbornness, but just past three the hustler was quickly losing hope of making any profit, and was honestly considering closing early. He hadn't done that in years, so Francis was hanging onto the glimmer of hope that after the movie people would wander in looking for merch, which he at least had a decent amount out lying around. With that thought in mind and restless legs bouncing and equally restless arms and hands scratching the table to cure their itch, the hustler stood and started to rearrange the shop, sliding Senor Fusion things up front, right by the door to his garage home base. People knew he could provide them with the fandom needs they craved. Or at least some. A few boxes in and Francis was beginning to notice he had much less than he assumed he did. At least he had another day to get it. A part of him was glad. Another part was disappointed. Overall the hustler didn't know what to feel about today, other than to wait it out. Then again, he'd been treating a lot of his problems like that lately, and he hoped it didn't bleed into too many other things. Otherwise it might be a symptom of something he couldn't control.

Before his thoughts could overtake him, he heard the familiar thud of footfalls on his sidewalk and up his drive, and for the slightest moment the hustler was excited, smooth, composed, and right back in business, standing to greet the newest chump. But then today was not a very good day for him, so he should have expected to be disappointed once more.

"Afternoon, Franny."

Who else should stroll in but the only customer who never ever paid?

It was a gross overgeneralization. Butch paid for things sometimes, but not too often. He was unemployed in the traditional sense, which meant next to no spending money. To Butch's credit he did find a way to pay or pay back whatever he was unable to outright purchase, but they were in highly specialized and situational ways. Such ways, be it a story or some private time behind closed doors after hours, were not going to help his profits for the day. So perhaps Francis was a little bitter when he rolled his eyes and Butch and turned away, counting his stock and pretending not to notice him. It wasn't Butch's fault, and Butch seemed to know that. He took it in stride, in any case, and didn't interrogate him further.

"What brings you by?" The hustler asked after a moment, acting conversational even though Butch had commandeered his chair and put his feet up on the table. "Isn't there a premiere today?"  
"Yep. I don't exactly have the income for it. Maybe next week." Butch crossed his arms behind his head and looked back at the other male. "Been a ghost town all day?"  
"All day."  
"Poor baby. Did you forget everyone and their principle loves Senor Fusion?"  
"No." Francis scribbled something on a piece of paper and hid it in his coat. "I just underestimated how many times they'd sit through it."  
"Ouch." Butch let his legs off the table and somehow didn't topple over, landing both feet square on the floor. "Why don't you just close?"  
"Oh ye of little faith. Somebody will stop by sometime."  
"What makes you say that?"  
"You did."  
"Ah, but I come poor and penniless to your door. Last time I checked you don't take too kindly to my type. And might I say I am flattered to be the exception to your rule."  
"You soon won't be."  
"Don't be like that."

Francis turned to check and make sure Butch wasn't actually offended, but found him smiling, legs crossed, slyly watching him while he pawed at things that weren't his that he couldn't afford. Good news for him, meaning he didn't have to rescind his mildly biting remark. Bad news also, because he wasn't sure what to say next, and more parts of him were telling him to hold his tongue than to forge onward.

Butch broke the silence for him. "This is nice." He lifted a lighter up off the table and turned it in his hands. "Can I have it?"  
"That depends."  
"On what?"  
"On if you have the ten bucks to pay me for it."  
"_Ten_ dollars?" Butch put it down but kept his eyes on it. "What a rip off."  
"Hey, that's good quality. And you refill it, you don't trash the thing." A smile was playing over Francis' face. He hovered behind the chair Butch was occupying, one hand companionably on the back. "It's nice, isn't it?"  
"Yeah. Not ten dollars nice. But nice."  
"Perhaps I can be talked into a price reduction."  
"How much?"  
"What do you have?"

Butch heaved a heavy sigh. He knew this song and dance by observation more than actual subjugation to it. There were a few times like these where Francis would tease Butch, but he never actually meant it, and it was never for actual merchandise. They'd barter over the remote and the saltshaker at dinner when they had more than a night to spare together. Now though, because he was selfish and maybe too hopeful, he might have really wanted that ten or less dollars. It would have helped his profits for the day, at least.

"I've got pocket lint, five bucks, and some gum. Also cigarettes, but they're used and I sort of need them."  
"You don't _need_ them. Use toothpicks."  
"Splinters."

The hustler chuckled at Butch's expense and ignored the hollow _thwack_ of Butch's arm bumping the side of his coat. It took a good deal of risk on his part, but Francis shifted his arm from the back of the chair to lying comfortably over Butch's shoulders, his hand curled over Butch's opposite shoulder. Butch eased into him, filling the gap under his arm and up against his chest like he owned it. He sort of did, but Francis wouldn't let him know that.

"Why do you want it so bad, huh?" Francis asked, his tone lower, more conversational. He was rather inclined to just let him have it, but teasing was much more fun.  
"Silver keeps werewolves away." Francis' snort prompted a slightly more realistic response. "And I'm sick of having to steal matches from the kitchen. So lemme have it?  
"Not without payment."  
"Payment huh?" Butch hummed, leaning back up into the crook of Francis' shoulder and neck, pressing his face there. "Well, considering you don't want my peasant money and I don't smoke anything but cigs, gonna have to go with that third option."  
"Don't have that option anymore, Butchy boy." Francis teased, tapping his nose, nuzzling his face into his hair before pulling back and away from the table. "Try again."

It took about half a minute to realize his mistake. When he did, he swallowed hard and kept to his stock, counting things. He had meant to tease, to evade and goad Butch into keeping on with the little song and dance because if he wasn't going to make any money today he might as well have fun with what he was given. But he'd fucked up. Butch wasn't supposed to now of that option being canceled out, even if it was because of him, and maybe Francis did want him to find out. It was just too soon, and he wasn't supposed to hear it directly from him. It prompted questions Francis didn't know how to answer without stammering yet. He hadn't figured out what to think or feel completely, let alone explain. He could feel Butch staring at his back, hear him shifting around in his chair to stand. Francis bit his tongue. Still quiet, Butch was probably scratching his head or trying to form some words. Francis almost cracked and said Butch could have the damn thing, but the bribe and slapping on a 'just kidding' didn't seem like it would cut it. Butch was too suspicious of a person to even consider taking that at face value. The hustler braced himself for the inevitable question, but hoped it wouldn't come.

"Why?"

Fuck.

"Why what?"  
"Why no third payment, Franny?"  
"Because I want _you_ to pay up for once."  
"Aw, c'mon man. Don't be like that."

Impressed by his own ability to cobble together a somewhat believable reason, Francis turned to face Butch, who looked rather displeased, but not suspicious. Arms crossed, head tilted, mouth turned into a slight frown, he watched the hustler until he was sure he would squirm, and when Francis wouldn't relent that much, he sighed heavily and tapped his foot and silently demanded an explanation. For whatever reason (probably because he was still trying to make that half lie before as convincing as possible), Francis obliged him.

"I'm in the hole, Butch." Francis explained easily, shrugging his shoulders. "You're the fourth person today. Gotta make a little money somehow."  
"Oh wow. That stings." Butch made a pained face and touched his heart. "Am I only a customer to you, Fran? I thought you _cared_."  
Francis bit his lip, trying not to laugh at Butch's theatircs. "I _do_, Butch. I care about _all_ my customers. That's why I'm offering a discount."  
"Five bucks and pocket lint discount?"  
"Not that steep of a discount."  
"So let me get this straight." Butch started, taking calculated steps over to the hustler. "I can't give you what I have, and I can't offer you myself as payment."  
"No and no."  
"You're a dick." Butch pouted at him. "Not even if I blow you?"  
"I'm pretty sure that's under the third payment."  
"Yes, but If I remember correctly, you let me absolve at least fifty bucks worth of IOU's and other debts because I blew you and you fucking _l__oved_ it enough to fork over a pack and not want to kill me anymore. So that's gotta count for _something_, doesn't it?"

While this was being said, Butch slid up to him easily, trying his best to look cute. Strangely enough, he succeeded, but Francis assumed he was biased and a terrible judge of that sort of thing. It was probably strange to think of anyone as cute when they were offering to suck your dick. But Butch was Butch, and it fit him, at least. The hustler sighed and rolled his eyes. His slight smile betrayed him, however, when Butch slid his hands up his chest and around his neck. The smaller male made some small cooing noise and pushed up against him as tantalizingly as he could, but really only came off as awkward and cheesy. Francis laughed at him for his troubles, but put his hands on his hips anyway to keep him in place.

"C'mon hustler." Butch murmured, wiggling against his hand, "Can't you make an exception for lil ol' me?"  
"I don't think-"  
"Oh _please_? Pretty please? You know I can make it good."  
"Well yes-"  
"I never disappoint. You know that. And since I _really_ want it, I'll be extra good." Butch was already sliding down Francis' body, grinning. "So let me?"  
"Do I have a choice?"  
"You always do, Fran. Just say the word."

Francis said nothing and Butch took it for the invitation that it was gently pushing the hustler so he lower back pressed into the counter just as Butch got to his knees in front of him. Francis wasn't sure how he felt about this arrangement. He supposed it was good, but his mind kept straying to the door he wasn't sure if he locked and exactly how much he'd paid for that lighter and why in God's name he thought it would be a good idea to blurt that he wasn't taking sex for payment _right to Butch's face_. But then inevitably his mind strayed further, from actual thought into feeling how soft Butch's hair was in his fingers or how hot Butch's fingers seemed to be when they felt his skin. Francis swallowed and leaned back a little, letting Butch do as he pleased. He was in no position to complain or stop him, and Butch had never failed to disappoint. At the very least, it would keep him of thinking too deeply about anything.

Butch, for what it was worth, was taking a great interest in disrobing the hustler as much as he could. It wasn't that he was in desperate need of money or the lighter. He just wanted both. A lot. He wasn't sure where Fran's whole celibate thing came from or why he was suddenly so evasive. All things considered, though, Butch was mostly glad for it. It meant less worrying. Not that Fran needed to know that. Not like he could up and thank him for something of his own device and choosing. Butch was chalking it up to the recent flyers going around school about sexual health and well-being. Getting a blowjob from another guy you were fucking on the sly wasn't covered. Butch had checked. So he assumed he was above those rules and pawed at Francis' zipper.

In a move he hoped was as sexy as it was in his head, Butch leaned forward and caught the zipper in his teeth, pulling it down and somehow not smacking himself in the face with the belt. He metal taste in his teeth was washed out by the unsteady moan above him and the slight tightening of fingers in his hair. So there was something he could use again. Butch liked to keep note of things like that, because it was rare he'd get a vocal response that was above a whisper and more impassioned than a demand to keep quiet, and Butch wanted to make him scream someday.

All those hopes aside, Butch pressed on with his hands and wet his lips in preparation, parting denim and the flap in the middle of his boxers. Francis's grip on his hair eased and he took deep breaths, which Butch made shallow as immediately as he could by pulling him out into the open and pressing his mouth to it. Despite all of his impromptu practicing, Butch still wasn't convinced he was good enough without some mutual lust cloud around them. It was a lot of pressure to do out of nowhere, but it usually reaped pretty damn good rewards. So Butch quit stalling and stroked the part of Fran's cock he didn't have his mouth on, licked up the side a few times, and then swallowed it down.

It wasn't the best feeling in the world, but Butch moaned like it was. Francis gripped his hair and echoed it, his hips rolling shallowly against the counter. The more movement Francis made the more Butch did with his tongue and throat, bobbing his head in such a way that the hustler was worried somewhere in the back of his mind that Butch was trying to choke himself.

The storyteller was just getting into what he was doing when he felt Francis' stomach brush over the top of his head and heard the familiar bumbling rush of his voice spilling curses over the back of his shirt. He didn't think Francis to be _that_ ready or _that_ quickly turned on, but Butch wasn't complaining. The hustler was trying to pull him off his dick, whispering warnings and groaning. Butch hummed in return and made some hushed noise and bobbed his head, willing to take what was coming.

Despite his best efforts Francis came in Butch's mouth, and Butch took it all with a few coughs and let the hustler go limp. He wasn't exactly practiced and it stung a little and didn't really sit well in his stomach, but Butch was willing to let it go. He glanced up at the hustler as his hand fell away and thudded gently against the counter he was half clinging to. Butch felt a little better about his own red face and slight pant, seeing it shared with the hustler. The strange taste in his mouth was more than worth the sight.

Butch wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and rose up, trying to get as much height as he could on the half crumpled hustler. Francis tipped his head up and Butch took the chance he was given and kissed him, because he'd missed the chance before, and Francis looked so good when he was sated. This prompted a less than favorable reaction, which it often did, but Butch slid his tongue into the hustler's weak mouth and Francis let him in, grimacing but returning it. For whatever reason Butch wasn't willing to think too much about, the usual hand pushing him away didn't come up until much later, and it was much weaker than usual. What's more, it fisted in the front of his t-shirt and anchored Butch close. Butch wasn't sure what to make of the close proximity, but decided against kissing the other male again and instead smirking a little bit.

"Good?" Butch asked.  
"Mhm." Francis licked his lips. "I uh…"  
"Ten dollars good?"  
"What?"  
"Can I have the lighter?"  
"... Oh. Oh yeah. Take it."

The hustler swallowed and nodded toward the lighter, fumbling with his zipper and belt. Butch took some satisfaction with watching the normally composed hustler fail to do something so simple, but that was no new pleasure of his. Butch seemed to have a good talent for knocking HK for a loop. Then again, HK had the same effect on him, just in ways Butch hoped he hid better.

Once Francis was dressed and presentable, Butch flaunted his ill-gotten gains in front of him by lighting up right in shop. The hustler frowned at him for it but made no move to stop him. He could deal with the smoke trail of one cigarette. No one else was going to stop by. He was almost certain. He was also almost certain he'd left the door open the entire time, which would have made for an interesting explanation on his part.

"You gonna stay open?" Butch asked, a familiar tilt to his voice.  
"Maybe."  
"How much longer then?" he asked. "I'll keep you company."

The kind of company Butch was referring to wasn't as companionable as he made it seem. Francis figured it was only fair, considering how he'd been satisfied while Butch only had a lighter to show for it. It made it seem like he was using him again, and Francis didn't want any part of that. He'd been good about avoiding that lately, and he hoped it was making some difference. He supposed the mere fact Butch was sticking around, knowing he'd get a turn too, was improvement enough from their fuck-and-runs.

"Sure. I shouldn't be _too_ long." He said. "It _is_ sort of dead, isn't it?"  
"Sure looks like it." Butch was smiling when Francis looked at him. "You're screwed for the day. Why don't you close up shop and I'll console you. And your wallet. Mostly you."  
"How sweet."

They'd taken to eyeing each other from across the table. Butch wasn't masking the look in his eyes and Francis wasn't blocking him from it in the least. The games were falling away because they were both sick of them and knew what the other wanted. Banter, as entertaining as it was, wouldn't last much longer. Francis was crafting some quip about mouthwash before he could kiss him again when he heard again footfalls on the drive.

"Evenin' HK." Came the familiar drawl, fingers wandering in with his hands in his pockets, his green trench coat belted tightly around his person.

The moment was loss, their attention on Fingers standing in the threshold. Said hustler looked back at them, oblivious to what just happened but suspicious nonetheless. Francis glanced at Butch, who might have glanced at him, but he didn't see it. He didn't look uncomfortable, but he didn't seem to like being in the middle. Still, they both held their ground. Francis wondered how rude it would be to tell his long time business associate to kindly go away for at least another hour or two.

"Am I interruptin' something?" Fingers asked, gesturing to the storyteller and hustler inside.  
"No, no. Just an exchange." HK amended for him, shaking his head.  
"Oh so you actually got a customer today." Fingers teased, "Good for you."  
"One's better than nothing." Francis shot back, daring a further argument. Fingers raised his hands and Butch straightened up, pushing off the table.  
"I'll get right to work on those stories then, bossman." Butch said with a shrug. "You've got my number if you think of anything else."  
"Yeah." Hustler glanced at Butch, failing to cup with anything further "Yeah. See you around Butch."  
"Later Hustler. Fingers." Butch inclined his head to both of them. Francis was almost certain he'd tip his hat if he had one.

With Butch gone, the two hustlers stood in a comfortable silence, regarding each other. It wasn't uncomfortable so much as a sudden shift Francis wasn't sure how to change gears so suddenly. He had been so ready to let go that to regain the hustler persona came as a shock, and cobbling that together in the presence of his rival and best partner was no small feat. Fingers, however, seemed at ease in familiar territory, and sat right on the edge of the table, jerking his thumb to where Butch was moments before.

"So you've got him running product for you." Fingers drawled, smirking. "Sneaky bastard. I figured you two had somethin' going on."  
"Yeah yeah." Finger's ease seeped into HK's, and he became haughty and competitive again "You're just mad you didn't think of it first."  
"Damn right I am. All that took was a lighter?"  
"And smokes."  
"Damn. Think he'll pull double duty?"  
"I think you better stay off my investment."  
"Fine, fine." Fingers raised his hands in defeat and rose again. "At least I wasn't dumb enough to stay open today."  
"Yeah yeah. Keep talkin'."

The hustlers lapsed into easy chatter, bartering and gesturing like they'd done for years, haggling over process and stock until the hours waned away enough it chased them both out of the garage storefront. Francis hadn't forgotten about Butch, and did feel somewhat uneasy about letting him go so simply without so much as a goodbye.

He felt better when he found him later that evening, waiting for him with a cigarette in his teeth on his front porch, playing with his new lighter, smiling when Francis accused him of being a stalker, kissing him when Butch nagged him about taking so long to get there.

* * *

**I feel like everyone should know that my word proccessor keeps wanting to correct 'Butch' to 'bitch'.**

**Just an amusing little fact.**

**Thanks for reading!****  
**


	39. Pillow Talk

**This is super late and I am sorry, but no excuse is going to make up for being so late. However, lovely tiny, tiny fandom, I have returned to you and I still love all your faces even if I've probably been forgotten. WHEE**

**I hope you like what goes on from this point. It'll be sort of rapid fire in terms of pacing (but probably not in uploading because I am awful at this).**

**Enjoy.**

* * *

Butch was certain that Francis had the best bed in the entire world. It had to be a fact. Nothing Butch had ever lain on before felt this good. He might be based, considering he slept on a couch or not at all most nights. Post climax feelings might have been seeping into his train of thought and making him overly complacent. Butch hummed, stretching himself out under the sheets, reaching for the cool places that seemed just out of reach. He reached up under his head and grabbed one of the pillows, rubbing his face against it. Francis sometimes teased his utter enjoyment of the extravagant things, but Butch never paid him any mind. Hustler had been born and raised on good beds and better pillows that were excellent for napping. Or biting. Butch snickered to himself and rolled onto his back, tangling his bare legs in the sheets.

Somewhere behind him, the shower started up without the sputter that Butch's shower usually had. Minutes before, Francis had nibbled Butch's neck and managed to tear himself away from him, saying that he needed a shower and that he'd never get up early enough to take one in the morning. Butch had been too far gone at the moment to care, so he let Fran go before he had the presence of mind to demand to be taken with him and treated to some nice hot water and maybe some more sex. The storyteller arched his back and pouted at the ceiling, wriggling around until he found another cool spot. He'd take his turn in the morning or after Fran was out. He hadn't decided yet. But he wasn't ready to move yet.

In his travels across the sheets he came upon the warm imprint Francis had left before, and though he'd been searching for cooler spots in the bed, the warms ones made him linger. The thought of Francis, moments before, breathing heavy and muttering awful things and grasping at his skin and pulling him into and underneath him made Butch chuckle and fidget under the thin sheets, gnawing at his lower lip. If only he could bounce back as quick as Franny did; if so, he'd probably be in there having some good clean fun in the shower stall rather than writhing alone on the comfy bed.

Rolling onto his side, Butch grabbed the pillow again and pressed his face into it. He never let Francis see him get this kind of sentimental – the kind where he'd spend too long hugging a pillow or breathing in the blankets. He sort of wanted to, because then maybe he'd get more things to hang onto, but he never dared to because there would also be questions before he could get too far, and Butch didn't know how to answer them yet. For now, Butch was content stealing inhales and dreamy trails of thought when Francis wasn't looking at him, or at least wasn't looking too hard.

He heard the water shut off and he squirmed a little, knowing all too soon the door would open and Fran would come strolling out, smelling like soap and whatever shampoo he used. He grinned. Butch could almost feel him already, warm and damp and heavy handed from general exhaustion more than misplaced strength. The storyteller bit his lip and shut his eyes. He was more than sure he'd not want to move once Francis took his place beside him. It was corny and Butch never thought's he'd feel this way about another guy but he wanted so badly to feel him close and safe and warm. His turn in the shower would wait.

The door opened behind him and Butch listened for the footfalls on the carpet. They came, but they were faint. The door didn't squeak and the carpet muffled Francis' heavy step. Usually such things would terrify Butch, but Francis behind him, grumbling like he did and hanging his towels and taking big breaths behind him was too familiar to get scared of. He'd know it anywhere, and that sort of familiarity wasn't common anymore. Butch relished in it as Francis approached him, quieting down as he pulled the blanket off of the floor and brought it back on the bed, tugging it over Butch's body. A heavy hand rubbed his shoulder and Butch hummed, feigning sleep.

"Still awake?" Francis asked, his voice a low rumble.  
"Yeah." A pause "You smell good."

He heard the hustler chuckle behind him. Not a minute later, he felt the covers lift and a short breath of cool air quickly chased away by slightly dampened skin pressed against his back. It took a minute of shuffling, but eventually one of Fran's arms flopped over Butch's side. It stretched ahead of him, grasping the blankets in his fist, and them drawing it up to Butch's collarbone. His opposite arm wormed underneath the pillow Butch was nestled into. Either the hustler didn't notice or didn't care that their hands were nearly touching and he was entirely too close to an unclean body. His nose squished up against his shoulder and Butch hummed again, chuckling when Francis tipped his head up and kissed where his nose had been.

It was times like this that he felt the most at ease. It wasn't unidentified or unwelcome as it used to be. Butch knew exactly what it was he felt and, in fact, Butch actually found himself craving these times, fleeting as they were. This connection, the quiet ease between them that he wouldn't ever dare point out for fear of shattering it completely. It was as close to love as Butch would let himself admit, because a part of him was terribly frightened and insulted the rest of him for crumbling so quickly. He'd just take them as they came, clinging too desperately, because in these moments he could pretend he'd already said what he felt and Francis had returned the sentiment with poise Butch was jealous of, but could live with.

It was times like these that Butch grew bold. He overlaid his hand over the hand at his throat, fingers over rough knuckles and bed sheets, the length of his arm fitting neatly into the crook of Francis'. He'd shut his eyes and breathe a little deeper, grow a little softer and more open. It was dangerous to be like this, and that might have been part of the reason he did it. The feeling of teetering on the edge of something too personal right in front of someone, exposing himself in the only way the hustler had not seen yet. If Francis ever caught him then every answer would be too open, to true to ignore or forget. But it was safe now, because the larger body was tired and half gone and couldn't ask him why he was smiling so widely when he was supposed to be sleeping or question the more-than-just-friendliness of their embrace.

He really liked it when Fran held him like this. Butch could feel his heartbeat through his back and feel his breath come in slow puffs on his shoulder. He especially adored it when Fran couldn't seem to find the one way he wanted to sleep, shifting and moving little bits in some terrible attempt not to disturb him. He loved it when Fran was vocal and grumbled and mumbled nothings that might have been sweet if they weren't pressed into his skin so he couldn't hear them. Butch had to bite his lip when the hustler would make some small, contented noise and press his nose to the nape of his neck, then kiss him at the junction of his neck and shoulder, and then gently nip his shoulder for good measure. There was no reason for it because it was a stupid little routine that meant nothing except Francis was so tired he might have been drunk on it.

As luck would have it, he felt the other go through the slow, careful routine he liked so much. He heard the contented noise, felt his larger arms pull him in that much more. He felt the others heartbeat thrum gently against his back.

"I love you." Butch sighed softly, suddenly, letting his eyes fall shut.

Francis' hold on him tightened. Butch couldn't breathe. The hand at his neck was too hot, clasped around his throat, daring him to speak again. It wasn't- he couldn't take it back. There were no words that could explain it away or rationalize it. There was no escape from whatever reaction that awaited him, literally stuck in that one spot. The only thing he _could_ do was keep perfectly still and pray that Fran was asleep, or that the bed sink open and swallow him whole.

The silence stretched on. Butch knew something had to crack soon, something had to give. It was going to be him. Something was going to forcibly evict itself from his body, and whatever it was, Butch was sure it wasn't going to be a pleasant something. At this point, however, Butch just wanted something to happen. His stomach was in knots and he felt close to sobbing. If he could just wriggle out from under Francis' arm and never look back, he'd be fine. Just fine. Oh sure it'd hurt for a while but anything was better than facing that clumsy admission.

Then finally, mercifully, something broke.

"Say again?" Francis mumbled into his shoulder.  
"Nothing" Butch said, belatedly shrinking his voice to a mumble "Nothing at all."

O/O

The next morning, Butch didn't quite wake up as force himself up and out of bed. He'd been trapped between heart-pounding terror of his own idiocy and the stubborn pull of his comfort. It was a wonder he was able to close his eyes at all. The light made things seem a little better. The nightmares were stuffed back in closets and his words couldn't lurk in shadows and mockingly repeat themselves back to him. They tried, and the notion that he'd fucked up royally was teasing the back of his neck, but he swatted behind him to avoid looking at it directly. Strangely though, he picked up nothing.

Butch did turn over, fearing for half a second he'd come face- to- face with a corpse. But again, there was nothing there. The sheets were cold, and beyond his hand the bathroom door was open. He remembered then, before his resounding moment of stupid, that Francis had needed to leave early. A look back at the clock reminded him he'd gotten no sleep. Butch debated with himself on the merits of rising and shining in the sheets, twisting himself in them for a moment before he rolled out of bed and got dressed in the close he wore yesterday.

He strolled out the room, taking his time poking around the house. What Fran didn't know wouldn't hurt him. The shifted things in his cabinets and Butch nervous energy didn't need to be shared. Butch knew the layout of the house pretty well, but not entirely. Sometimes he still got lost, which right now would have been great. Maybe, if he found a back way out, he'd never have to face Fran again. At least he could fend off the humiliation for a while. But Butch had no such luck, and stumbled across the stairway down into the kitchen. He passed it, dragging his hand along the wall, moving objects he came across and thinking too many thoughts. When he was satisfied with his meddling and his path looped back around to the same stairs, some tune echoing up the steps, he walked down the stairs.

From below, Butch could make out the melody a little better. Some old tune that was beyond his time. He paused on the last step, peering into the kitchen. Francis didn't know he knew, but he'd known Fran could sing a little bit here and there, when he was alone. He assumed it was like with Mikey back in fourth grade – an alone-time talent. He'd caught it once or twice sneaking up on him doin inventory, or when he was cooking or doing other domestic things. Butch didn't make fun of him for it – but oh good _God_ he wanted to. Those old songs, were so damned cheesy they were begging to be picked on, especially out of the mouth of someone half a century younger.

Beyond that though, he recalled something more pressing than making fun of the Hustler while he swayed about serenading the kitchen. He tipped down the last step and wandered into the kitchen, scratching his head and yawning. Butch leaned against the doorframe and met Francis' stare with a false, easy smile.

"What are you frying up? Doesn't smell half bad."  
"Morning Butch." The hustler greeted. "You're not allergic to anything right?"  
"Nope. Thanks for asking after you made it though. I appreciate that." Butch watched the hustler shrug and scrape the contents in the pan onto the plate, then take the plate over to the table.  
"Eat. Please. You're bony."  
"And you're worse than my grandmother." Butch eased over to the table and plopped into the chair. Francis handed him a fork. "Aren't you supposed to be somewhere?" Butch deadpanned.  
"Yep."

Before Butch could poke his breakfast, Francis leaned over him, his larger size and open coat making Butch feel trapped and too small and sort of nervous the closer he leaned. Not that he had much time to contemplate it – Francis pressed his mouth to his, soft and firm and insistent, too much like those sleepy kisses that were alien in the light. Butch nearly tipped back in his chair, but the wall saved him from falling over entirely. His fork did make an unpleasant scraping sound against the plate, however. Francis only smiled and nipped his lip before he stood. He adjusted his sleeves and belted his coat shut, offering Butch a playful cuff up the back of his head.

"Eat what you can, but for the love of Mike eat /something/ you damn near cut through my ribs last night."  
"M'not that skinny."  
"Still. Eat and leave what you don't finish I'll take care of it."  
"Yeah yeah. Keep talking. Make yourself later than you already are."  
"Yes dear." Francis smiled and kissed Butch's cheek, making him drop his scooped up bite. "Don't steal any of my shit. You know I'll know."

And just like that, he turned and left. Butch remained in his seat and waited until he heard the front door open and shut before hurriedly feeling in his pockets. He came up with a shaking hand and unlit cigarette, making short work of the flat end with his lighter. Butch had hoped to feel out the hustler before he spirited himself away. Usually he had an okay time of it, but the early morning and the sudden kiss and too many things threw him off. Now, left with an omelet and a half gone cigarette, Butch was no closer to knowing if Francis had heard him or not. He hoped he hadn't. Fran _had_ been tired, and he _had_ asked him to repeat himself. And he _had not_ been strange this morning – right up until the oddly gentle kiss and singing and making him breakfast. But then again, that wasn't unheard of either-

Butch ignored most of the morning and, despite the gnawing in his stomach and the ash on the edge of his plate, he ate his food as he was asked.

O/O

Hours later, after Francis had finished his shift, the hustler was left alone once more in his home, with only a couple of dirty dishes and a cold cigarette to keep him company. It was fine, Francis didn't need company every waking second of the day. He understood that Butch fled the premises to do anything else. He just wished he hadn't. After last night, he'd half hoped he'd be here still.

Francis wasn't about to kid himself. What they were doing, what they were knee deep in – it wasn't love. They may have felt it (or said it), but the feeling wasn't (supposed to be) shared. Something was like that was too big for them. They weren't even out of high school yet. A couple of rough fucks and spending time together did not a healthy, sound relationship make. Francis knew that much – he'd been part of too many unhealthy ones. He knew the signs, or at least he thought he did. This was, by far, the most stable relationship he'd had with anyone outside of business, and he supposed that wasn't healthy either, but it was something, and he didn't want to let it fall apart trying to make it something it wasn't. And it wasn't.

Unbelievably or perhaps desperately, Francis _had_ almost echoed the statement back to him, and he would have meant it as much as he was able. But he hadn't, because though he heard Butch loud and clear, he felt him shake and seize up even more vividly, and decided not to push him to bolting.

Francis really couldn't blame Butch or himself for that. As per their agreement there weren't feelings involved and it, whatever it was, wasn't supposed to be permanent. That clause was ruining them both in their own private way. At least, it was ruining Francis. When he held Butch then, late that night and heard those words, he couldn't stop smiling. The absurd notion of Butch muttering the same words he'd been contemplating for the past week. It was too perfect, much too much like every story Butch despised, predictable and foolish. Francis hated those stories too, but he used them the same way he used everything popular- to push product. They had their use, however stupid. He never felt anything for them though, and prided himself on not being a victim of their schlock. And yet Francis smiled at Butch's back for a good while after he'd fallen asleep, holding him tenderly as he was prone to do.

Maybe that was part of the reason he was relying a little too much on Butch's half-asleep mumble. Whatever they had going on, this almost-love (if either of them could be believed), was the best he'd had. His family wasn't great, his lovers before Butch had been one night stands. He barely had any friends and was essentially married to his work. This thing with Butch was special to him, perhaps because it was his first, perhaps because it was his only. Francis didn't want to make it into a big deal, but in truth it already was. He loved Butch, and maybe Butch loved him. For all the rationalizing he'd been doing, he was finding it damn hard to convince himself that anything sort of a down-on-one-knee proposal was a bad idea.

But neither he nor Butch was like that, and the perpetual fear of being laughed at or rejected was keeping him neutral.

It didn't mean he couldn't scheme.

When he ran out that morning, leaving Butch grasping the back of the chair to stay upright, Francis had already formed a plan. It meant giving up a great deal on his part, even if it looked like nothing, given his resources. The prior night of giddy sleeplessness had made it seem all too easy to commit to this sort of outlandish plan. The following morning he'd thought it over and tried to find flaws, but then Butch came stumbling down the stairs, looking around, seemingly glad that he found the kitchen. The ease in his stance when he leaned against the doorframe and asked what smelled so good cemented the decision for him.

Now he held fate in his hand, simple silver, flat in his palm.

Getting it had been simple. He knew a guy. It was just that easy. The issue rested in actually making the delivery, and if he was sure. Like everything else involving Butch, Francis wasn't completely sure about everything. Butch lied, and Francis, though he trusted him, was always left to wonder. Here was so much gray area in everything they did, together or separate. I was unfamiliar, dodgy territory. He didn't like it. Before Butch he hadn't had to deal with the gray areas except in morality, and he'd worked since fourth grade to make those more solid, separate concepts of good and bad. Butch made everything so much more difficult. But then again, Francis did like challenges. He supposed that it was a bad reason to keep Butch around, but it was better than just for sex, and he did love him as far as he was able to discern. Maybe the confusion was love. Books and movies confused the two often enough. He could make the same mistake.

As if on cue, summoned by his frazzled brain, there came a couple of quick knocks on the door. The hustler greeted Butch with bored familiarity and muttered something about dinner, letting him in before he could leave another butt on the stoop. In his usual way, Butch breezed past him pulling a toothpick from his pocket and strolling about with his hand in his pockets, like he always did. Ever since the first time he stepped foot into Francis' house, Butch would take the time to look around before giving Francis his attention (unless, of course, his attention was on Francis /before/ they tumbled inside). Like always, Francis watched him as he closed and locked the door behind them, following Butch's lead deeper into his own home. He wondered sometimes what went through Butch's head, but he'd never press. It was bound to be frightening in a way he wasn't prepared to deal with.

"What are you looking for anyway?"  
"Just lookin'. Chalk it up to my weird paranoia." Smiling, Butch turned and shifted his toothpick. "I'm gonna find a secret bookcase or tunnel or something one of these days."  
"Not every larger than average house has some terrible secret."  
"You clearly do not watch enough TV."  
"And you clearly watch too much. Now come here."  
Butch leered at the hustler but ambled over anyway, falling against him dramatically. "You're just trying to distract me from finding it."  
"Nonsense."  
"Don't patronize me. Kiss me instead."

Francis sighed, but complied to Butch's request, meeting the smiling mouth halfway. Butch eased into him and drew his arms more loosely around his shoulders. He slipped his hands down over Butch's narrow back and let them drop lower than his belt. Butch was more than pleased to make a lewd noise and grin, grinding back and forth into his hands and hips, slowly rocking. Francis sighed and let Butch slide his tongue into his mouth, rebutting with sliding his hands into Butch's back pockets, curling in the denim and drawing his body right up close.

Butch broke from him for half a second, closing his mouth over his again and again, and Francis was at his mercy, not that he would want to. He finally did withdraw his hands, sliding against the denim, leaving behind what had been flat in his palm stuck in Butch's back pocket. He parted with a quick peck and a step back, muttering to himself about what he was almost sure he had in his kitchen and trying to figure out what to make that wouldn't have his company making a funny face. Butch was already making one, and Francis was almost sure that he was sneakier than that, but then again butch was the paranoid type. Either way, he stuck to dinner until Butch drew his attention elsewhere.

"What'd you put in my pants?"  
"Butch I'm pretty sure you've always had that."  
"Not that. Perv."

Butch scowled at him and felt himself up, digging into his pockets to look for what was poking him. Still butch was giving him looks, but the hustler had perfected his poker face. To boot, he ducked into the next room before Butch could pull the key from his back pocket.

It took a moment to understand exactly what he was looking at, or why Francis left it there, or why he couldn't just give it to him. Bewildered wasn't a big enough word for that. Still, Butch followed Francis into the kitchen as he open and shut cabinets, looking between an already retrieved box in his hand and the untouched contents with a steadily growing frown. Butch blocked him before he could side over to the pantry.

"Fran."  
"What?"  
"What's this?"  
"A key."  
"To what?"  
"Here."  
"Here?"  
"Yes." Francis put a box down on the counter and stared at Butch. "Problem?"  
"You're giving me a key. To your house. Your actual house."  
"Yeah."  
"Why?"  
"I'm sick of you breaking in. I'd rather you not keep misplacing my spares."

The hustler breezed past him with the air of someone much older, richer, colder, like some eccentric villain in a cape, plotting some terrible plan. His coat, open and drifting behind him, only helped the illusion in Butch's head. Butch would not make the same mistakes as most protagonists gifted with the key to a strange castle with a treasure inside, no matter how much he wanted it. He wanted answers. Now.

"I'm still not getting it."  
"What's there to get? You're in here a lot. We're basically on opposite sides of town. If you need a place to stay around here, you've got it." Then came the answer Butch didn't know he was waiting for. "I trust you."

Three words had made him stop dead least night, and three more (well, one, if he were to be technical) stopped him now.

The look on his face, whatever it was, didn't seem to make Francis feel comfortable. He shut his mouth into a firm line and rocked back on his heels before he turned, wandering into the kitchen. His coat stayed on and his back stayed presented, rude and uninviting. Butch would have made a comment, but he was too busy trying to swallow past a lump in his throat and follow patterns to the floor to get to his seat.

This was kind of a big fucking deal.

Still, Butch sat at the table. They hadn't eaten in the dining room, but it was needlessly large and Francis seemed to avoid the room altogether. Butch didn't mind. He liked it better. It was more personal. He didn't really have to grasp at straws to spend time with Francis, but Butch was always game for more reasons, more excuses. Francis looked happier that way, and Butch liked to think he gave the guy some chance at being normal, until he remembered how fucked up he was. Then Butch remembered it was another way he was getting what he wanted, and he might have thought it was awful, if Francis didn't slide his hand over his thigh or reach over to cup his cheek. He might have felt bad, if Francis didn't indulge him of his own free will.

When Butch sat though, he curled his palms over his knees and in the left one he felt the soft bite of metal edges, not enough to cut but there, pressing and indenting into him. Butch closed his hand that much tighter. He still wasn't convinced. Francis must have been out of his goddamned mind to give him a key to his house. Even if he was annoyed that Butch had found a way to magic (not really) his way inside, giving him easier access made a whole lot less sense than just changing the locks. Butch was almost tempted to test the keys, but when he glanced down, the key ring shone up at him, hooked around his middle finger, and his mind flew off in a different direction entirely.

He shook his head, free hand running his fingers though his head. He searched for a meaning that made sense, but the one that everything steered gently toward make he veer off the path and try to find something different. He wasn't in the right mind for this. It was just a gift; little and practical and sort of sweet if he thought about it not too hard. Butch figured he should thank him, but it was… it didn't seem that simple of a thing. It'd be like writing it off. It represented his trust in him. It was a step forward for both of them, maybe into something new. It was a symbol of-

It was a fucking key. A key. Just a key.

Butch wandered over to Francis, the key safe in his pocket. He threw his arm around the larger boy and peered past his moving arms and asked, "So what're we having?" And suddenly everything seemed all right again. It was a cop out, but the key wasn't any more silver than he was honest, so Butch tried not to think too much about it and simply accept the gift and torture a certain hustler. Dinner could wait.

* * *

**Just keep telling yourself that Butch. Denial must be grand. Like a carnival.**

**Thanks for reading :D**


	40. Keys aren't Always Black and White

**Happy new year have an update!**

**So I've graduated and become unemployed since I've last updated. Here have some angst feels BECAUSE WRITE WHAT YOU KNOW AM I RIGHT**

**Sorry.**

**WElp I'll have time to update so yaaaaay.**

* * *

She'd been home for three days.

It had only been three days. And all three days Francis had not seen her. He'd heard her, like a mouse in the walls or one of those ghosts Butch liked to talk about, but hadn't seen her yet.

He was thankful in some small way, because usually he didn't know where she was, and it seemed like the better thing to know she was roaming the halls or in the attic or in the kitchen. Truthfully though, he liked it better not knowing. There was less of a mess to clean up. He could forget the bad things and remember the clouded good.

It was hard to remember the good when he was cleaning up broken glasses and leftover food, picking up empty bottles. Francis was more fondly remembering the empty, silent house. He missed the echo and the buzz of nothing in his ears, setting the alarm and not having to worry about a swaying body setting it off in the night, turning the corner with a bat in his hand and remembering almost too late that the crumpled mass on the floor was so much not a threat it wasn't even worth putting her back where she belonged. Just enough to turn her on her side and take the bottle away.

It was the third day, the fourth night when Francis ran into her on equal terms, the both of them startled by another person in the house, half rushed, busy with other things. They regarded each other with a strange surprise, like running into a burglar or someone you were sure moved away. He had been on the way to his stock room; she had been examining herself in the hallway mirror. She wavered, watching his reflection, her hands on her face and her hair. She looked like she was ready to leave, which didn't faze Francis as much as he assumed it should. She was bound to leave sometime, he just never caught her in the act before.

She looked stunning in any case. Like she used to. It had been a while since he'd seen her dressed well and made up, groomed. It was something like years ago, but the past had never been all that great. He didn't remember it fondly, no matter how pleasing the image. He silently wished her the best, as hollow as he'd learned to be with her. She still watched him, cautious and half frozen. Her fingers curled in her hair, smoothing it as little as she could.

"Going out?" he licked his lips, feeling like he was speaking a foreign language. She looked at him like he was.  
"Y-Yes. Yes I am." Her voice gained strength and speed, her hands moved faster and she dared to take her eyes off of him for a moment. "Just a small gathering with my friends. The closest bunch I know- we're going to a première of course and I just _couldn't_ say no. Of course that means I will be gone for a while – but I know you can take care of the house." She turned on him, smoothing her dress. "Well. Good day. You know where to reach me."

Francis watched her when she turned back to the mirror, preening in earnest now that she determined he wasn't a threat. She kept glancing at him, but he stayed put. Today was a good day for her. She looked like her old self, the painted and photographed self, without the red and pale and wobbling legs clinging to walls. She probably hadn't even had a drink yet and if she had she was holding them well today, out of preparation more than utter desperation. She might have been lying, just leaving for the sake of leaving. He knew it was coming, and he hadn't felt anything right away. He'd almost wished he'd missed her now, to save what little feeling he had left for her. It was stupid, he knew, to hope she could look him in the eye, to stay for the sake of her only child.

She turned then, suddenly, grasping her clutch from the nearby hall table and rummaging around inside. She swayed a little on her feet, hummed a few notes to herself, and snapped it shut with a satisfying click. With that, she seemed ready to leave him again, alone in the hallway. In that moment, something in him broke, be it because of the past or the present, something he'd usually had a better grasp of, jarred by her looking better than usual, he assumed he could make things better too, but she strode past him, balanced on heels, and then Francis was a child again, terrified of the house so big and dark at night, afraid of being alone again, forgotten.

"Mom- Mom wait a second." She didn't stop. He strode after her, missing when he reached for her arm. "When are you going to be back?" She turned to face him again, almost offended at his outstretched arm. He dropped it and stepped closer to her, hands still up, kept close to his chest. He hoped – she had to know him. But there was the hollow look in her eye, and Francis choked because no, it couldn't be that look. "Mom please – for fuck's sake _don't do this_." Francis was pleading before he could save face. "You know me. You know who I am- I'm your son!"

She laughed sort of nervously, looking around at people who weren't there, then back at the boy breaking her careful ruse. Then she cracked a more permanent smile, popped open her clutch, and fished something out. She stepped toward him and took one of his hands, placing it in his palm, covering it so he couldn't see. And he stared, because he could already feel it. He knew what it was. He didn't know why he thought anything else would have happened.

"Here. I know it – it might seem like a lot but I do value your hard work. Take it, and take care." She pulled her slim hands from his and patted his cheek. She turned and went down the hall, back the way he had come.

He knew better than to feel this way. He knew better, because it solved nothing. To feel crushed and broken, tossed aside for people she didn't know. He knew already. All the holidays spent alone, the birthdays and accomplishments celebrated by himself. He knew better than to let it get to him like this. But she wormed under his skin. How could she not – his own mother. The one person who was supposed to love him no matter what.

And she didn't.  
He wasn't worth more than a dollar to her.

Francis pocketed the tip she'd given him and looked around, lost in his own home. He'd forgotten what he'd come up here for. He tried to think of something, anything.

The door slammed below him, and idly Francis wondered if she locked it, if she was actually going anywhere, if he'd find her in the morning. He pulled the money from his pocket and put it on the nearest flat surface. Then he walked away and tried to remember what he was doing before.

O/O

"So when were you gonna clue me in on this secret place up here?" Butch drawled quietly from the door, chewing on a toothpick. Francis didn't bother to move "Or that you could play?"

All in all, the hustler wasn't surprised to see him, but he was glad that Butch had been so late, that he hadn't seen him broken beyond repair. It was fine for the storyteller to see him cracked and patched up pretty bad, but not broken. No one was allowed to see him like that. He wouldn't let it happen. That was why he flinched when Butch laid his hand on him, all at once drawing up to be stiffer, taller, stronger than this. If Butch could believe that, then he'd be okay. He didn't seem to, eyeing him like that, like he had to sneak around. He gestured to the open space and Francis nodded, allowing him to take up space. It felt better now that he was here. Francis wasn't sure if it was because of love or just plain company, being touched by someone who wasn't revolted by him. If Butch took note of anything, he masked it well with words, as he often did.

"So, what, I gotta call you Mozart now?" Butch pressed, tilting his head, sitting down beside the hustler. "Or Beethoven? Maybe Salieri is a better fit, falling into the background and all that. You were pretty good, but I'm kinda tone deaf so what the hell do I know?" Butch paused his babbling to frown at Francis' face. "So what's up?"

Francis heaved a heavy sigh and Butch already felt like he was going to be told to leave. It made him sit more firmly on the bench and take in the piano. It was scratched and dented, chipped paint but still glossed. It looked old, but maybe not enough to hold sentimental value. Francis seemed to look at it with something like bored scorn, a dent in the wall he kept meaning to fix. The song had stopped and now just dull pings remained. It might have been the same thing, just slowed down to one note at a time. Butch couldn't tell.

"Butch – Not that I don't appreciate your company but-"  
"If this is the start of you trying to worm your way out of this, then stop talking. I'm not goin anywhere."  
"Butch-"  
"You missed school, Fran."  
"I can take a day."  
"It's been three days Francis." Butch amended softly. He placed his hand on the hustler's arm in an attempt to get him to stop playing.  
"That can't be right. I've been busy."  
"Well, no. You missed a day at school, it's just that I haven't heard from you. I figured you were sick. Fingers had to tell me otherwise. He's the only one that's been seeing you." Butch tugged at his arm and tried to lean forward into his line of sight. "What's going on with you?"

At first, Francis shook his head, shrugging off the question and attempting to shrug off the asker with it. Butch held tighter, and Francis wanted to slump forward and show how disjointed and broken he really was, because if anyone could fix a broken thing it was probably Butch. He'd dealt with burying past problems. Maybe he knew how-

Again, Francis shook his head, stroking the keys idly. Sometimes he wished it were that simple. That he could just forget and be done with it. She made it seem so easy. Butch wouldn't let him. He never forgot. He always sought him out, like a hunting dog or maybe something kinder than that, something considerate and human. For that, maybe more than that, maybe because Francis felt safe or was blinded by an affection he was starved for or something equally as pathetically poetic, Francis figured he could let a little slip. Tell him what was going on. Just a little bit.

"When I was little, I was moved around a lot. Not to places – events. I had to learn things in order to be… presentable. Normal." Francis smiled to himself, plucking keys in some disjointed melody. "Aside from school, I mean. Arts. Stuff like dancing, singing, they threw in piano when I showed interest in it. Whatever kept me out of the way. When I got into hustling the lessons sort of went away. It didn't really matter, so long as I wasn't underfoot."

Almost instantly Butch turned stony next to him, and almost as instantly Francis regretted saying things to him like that. He trusted Butch, he loved Butch, but not enough to hurt him this much. It was okay for him to hurt, because he'd had practice. The wound had scarred over. This was new to Butch and Francis was sorry for making him ache on his behalf. Butch had strange tells. Even if he didn't seem all that upset (though Francis wasn't looking at him directly) there was something in him that was always uneasy when it came to the neglect the hustler knew. It was perhaps one of the only things that truly disgusted the grim storyteller. It was a shame that it was the only horror Francis could tell better than Butch.

"So… so you can play. Legit play." Butch was struggling not to panic, Francis could tell- the stuttered start and tapping fingers on his arm.  
"A little, yes. It's been a while."  
"No talent shows though. I mean I've never heard this. This and the singing could have won you a nice trophy." Butch squirmed and bumped into Francis' side. "I'm sure they'd have-"  
"They wouldn't have. "  
"That can't be right." Butch was breaking. He couldn't be this casual about abandonment. Francis felt bad for him, but wouldn't take his eyes off of ivory. "Where the hell have they been – you were raised, weren't you? They had to at least take care of you for a while – you haven't been on your own forever. I mean you act like a pod person sometimes but I know you were a kid at some point. Didn't you have a nanny or something?"  
"No nanny. We've had help though. My old man's old man helped before he passed. But…" Francis was beginning to regret starting, but like before with his mother, he couldn't seem to hold himself before it came out. "We haven't really seen much of each other. It's always strange when we do. Like… roommates. Strangers in a hotel. Something unfamiliar. They don't know how to be parents, so I'm not sure how to be a son. I'm a pretty good heir though. A regular debutant. I can fill out a suit and sit still and I'm young enough to be used as a bargaining chip when – if – Dad thinks he needs it. Mom too, but I think she-" He stopped and cleared his throat, the word 'forgets' on his tongue. "She's got it covered."

Francis knew he said too much. He knew. But he'd been doing a lot of things that he knew were wrong, forging ahead anyway. Another wouldn't hurt him. As he plucked at the keys, he noticed the silence around each note, and he wondered when Butch would break. He was fidgeting against his side and trying to keep quiet, but it was only a matter of time. Butch's hand was still on his arm, but the other was missing, probably rubbing his face or patting his pockets for a cigarette. Francis still didn't look. He didn't want Butch to see how upset he really was. It had only been a few hours since she left. While he didn't need the lecture he was sure was coming, he appreciated the quiet, if not uncomfortable company.

Butch took a deep breath and Francis wondered if he could lean over and kiss him, make him quiet but make him stay, skipping over the damaged parts and right to something he knew how to do without fucking up.

"Christ Fran. I mean – I can't, I don't understand. Why are you just sitting here and taking it? That's fucking child abuse or domestic abuse or something prosecutable. You're not a fucking after school special you're smart you can take care of yourself- that's not the same thing as sitting here alone! That's not dealing with it- You can't just be up here alone for three days playing the fucking piano-"  
"Butch." Francis pressed quietly, affectively cutting off Butch's excited rant. "Please. Just let it go. It's something I need to do. To think for a little while."  
"Why didn't you call me? Come find me – anything Francis. I'm your best- well you're _my_ best friend in any case. For fucks sake I wouldn't have left you alone. I'd have shacked up with you before you fucking hung up the phone. Why didn't you say anything?"  
"I didn't think you'd want to deal with a bad Phantom of the Opera knockoff."  
"Don't you even start with that suffering in silence bullshit. I'm not buying it Francis. You're better than this. I know you are. _You_ know you are. And if you fucking forget I'll remind you. But you can't just sequester yourself and hope it all goes away. This isn't coping. I care about you too much for this to be the only way." On a whim Butch whacked Francis' arm, which finally got him looking up, at him, and Butch had to stare at the look on his face. His mouth moved without his mind behind it. "And the Phantom of the Opera lived in the basement, not the attic."

Butch quieted himself, lowering, separating from the hustler for the moment. He watched his hands move again, slow but knowing, plucking a melody Butch figured someone more cultured than him would know. His hands seemed useless on his lap, pulled from Francis' arm. He'd never been so close to someone and so helpless at the same time. He decided he didn't like it. Not only was it a cliché, but also it fucking _hurt_. He couldn't even look at Francis' face without feeling knots. Some strange part of him thought it would be a good idea to whisper 'I love you', right then and now. He looked like he needed it.

He didn't. He really didn't need to fuck this up more than it already was. Broken glass or fire or whatever euphemism for however delicate this situation was. Butch breathed, in and out, nice and slow. He tried not to fidget, tried to understand the feeling of neglect and longing, and tried harder not to, because he wanted to fix it. Butch just didn't know the tune Francis was playing.

"Hey." Butch half-whispered, elbowing him in the side "Teach me something."  
"You want to know how to play?"  
"Yes." Butch lied. He didn't care about music. It wasn't what he meant. But he figured it was worth a shot to take Fran's mind off of whatever was bothering him "You've got the training. I am your willing and able student." He tried to smile. "The Christine to your Phantom, if we're still going with that."  
"We'll start with scales, then."

There was something in the way Butch groaned, throwing his head back and letting his arms go limp at his side as he loudly, wordlessly voiced his displeasure that made Francis smile.

* * *

**So yeah. Depressing. Happy new year! **  
**I'll probably be back sooner rather than later with the next installment. Probably. **  
**Thanks for putting up with me and my awful update schedule for this completely made up pairing. I honestly didn't think I'd get more than like two readers. You're the best.**  
**You get brownie points if you can spot the throwback.**


	41. Talk it Out

**Whoops just me crashing right on in with an update that is stupidly late even though I really have no schedule damn I'm bad at this.**

**Here have some angst and bad feelings.**

**One day I'll change but probably not soon.**

**Enjoy**

* * *

They were in the room overlooking the garden, the one Francis had taken Butch to after their first night together. Butch had grown to like this room. It was one of the only ones that he could find on his own, which made him proud to some extent. It was actually a very pretty room, well kept, lived in. That was what Butch liked best about it. Sure, it kind of looked like a show room, but every time he came in he found some evidence of life- rumpled pillow, blanket on the floor, a nearly empty glass. It was so much different than the rest of the house. Even Francis' room looked barren in comparison.

They were on each other. Butch on top, settled in Francis' lap, arms thrown around his neck and forehead pressed to the short, spiked hair. His was breathing heavy, washing over skin. His fingers grasped at Francis's shirt, his coat stripped off and somewhere crumpled behind his back. His arms were still in the sleeves. Butch felt the cuffs bump into his stomach when Francis pushed his shirt up, thumb on the downward scoop of his hips. Butch squeezed his thighs around the hustler's, his legs straight and pressed together underneath the subtle twitches of his hips. Francis' hand was around him, slow, languid strokes pulling him forward, his knuckles brushing against the lowest edge of the scars on his stomach. Small cries fell from Butch's mouth, and in turn Francis hummed little assurances, the thumb on his ribs pressing into his skin, following the solid line.

This was what Butch craved. A quiet intimacy, somewhere between the rough fucking of the beginning and the softer, kinder things that were newer to him, more frightening than broken blood vessels and limps. He felt both tearing at him, ripping him in two with each stroke, each broken cry digging further into his skin. He felt Francis's lips on his neck and gasped, eyes squeezed shut. Butch could feel his mouth, the concentrated, thin line that opened and drew in a little skin, pinching it between his teeth. Francis pulled away from it, brushed his mouth over it, and moved on over the taught skin to the next spot.

This was wrong. It just felt _wrong_.

Butch swallowed and stilled in Francis' grip. He could feel the hustler's mouth, still moving, a firm line opening and closing as it passed the lines and bumps along his throat. He knew this feeling well, he'd loved it so many times before, but there was something wrong now, no matter how tantalizing the soft, hot puff of breath was over the reddened skin. Butch had lost the warm feeling in his gut. Now he just felt cold and bored and it wasn't supposed to be like this. He was hard, he could finish, but he didn't want to.

"Fran I'm- Could you let up? Stop for a sec." Francis muttered something into his neck and Butch pushed off of him, hands on both the hustler's shoulders. "I'm not- I'm just not feeling it, okay?"

There was something about the way Francis let go, both hands off his person and settled on the couch that made Butch feel better. The look on his face, made him feel worse again. Butch pushed his hands through his hair and looked off at the wall behind them, then at the wall off to the side. Anywhere but down at the other man. He felt a flush pulse out of his skin and sighed, frustrated for more reasons than he could grasp. Francis still said nothing, even when Butch slid backwards off his lap, though he did make an effort to reach for him when he was knocked a bit off balance by the coffee table coming into contact with the middle of his calf. Butch turned from him and straightened up his appearance, stuffing his softening cock into his pants, giving up on the thought of getting off completely.

When Butch finally sat down, Francis cleared his throat. "Is it something I did?" He asked quietly. "I just thought-"  
"No. It's just not _working_ right now."  
"Seriously though, I don't want to make you uncomfortable or anything. You know I'd never-"  
"I know."

Butch heard him shut his mouth and exhale out of his nose. He still sat next to Francis, he just wasn't looking at him. There was some distant hope that the walls would talk to him instead, but the man beside him was shifting, rubbing his face and turning toward him to make some forced conversation.

"Don't Fran." Butch said, beating him to it with a wave of his hand. "It's okay."  
"Is it?"  
"I'm okay."  
"Okay."

It wasn't.

Butch wasn't sure what was up, but he was willing to make an educated guess. They didn't do much talking since Butch found him playing the piano. Their conversations were made up of quiet assurances - looks that lasted until the other noticed, touching shoulders or arms or backs. On the inside they were a little more forward, a little more costly with their affections. Butch especially so. The quieter Francis was, the more Butch's body spoke on his behalf. It betrayed him too easily, and Butch worried. Francis simply took at every turn, meekly returning with small gestures (free cigarettes, a lasting kiss - that sort of thing) with the air of someone who didn't know how to accept enormities.

Butch looked at him then and saw the same hollow troubles there, washed over with worry and an awkward smile. Francis patted his knee as well, his palm lingering and warming denim. He drew his arm back into his lap and searched the room, scrambling for something else, some piece of conversation or object to press time forward because it had come to a grinding halt because he stopped what they were doing.

"Sorry." Francis said, beating the silence away for a minute, uncharacteristically tumbling over his words, however few there were. "I'm not sure uhm- I'm just not sure what to do now. You're sure you're not upset?"  
"No."  
"No? No to what, exactly?"  
"Can't you just drop it when I fucking say stop?"  
"I was-"  
"Fucking lay off already Christ! I wasn't mad at you but I'm getting there now. Why do I have to be mad at you to say fuck off?"  
"Because you've never done it before!" Francis cried out, frustrated. "Even when you're really pissed at me we've had sex. We've had sex _while fighting_ so fucking excuse me but this is kind of weird and I'm concerned, okay? This isn't the usual deal and I thought maybe I'd either really fucked up or something happened."

Butch grit his teeth and bounced his leg. Francis sighed and rubbed his face and cursed behind his hand, watching Butch carefully beside him. Butch hated him for it. He hated all of this. A part of him wanted to climb up into the hustler's lap and let him go back to what he was doing because he knew the motions and that wouldn't piss him off as much as his fumbling attempts to do anything else. Butch knew they founded this relationship, however shaky, on sex. He knew I would be a factor more or less forever. But Butch _loved_ the stupid son of a bitch and he knew they could just be together and not say anything or talk for hours, but only if sex was thrown in somewhere. And Butch used to be fine with that, except now it wasn't even working and it hurt to think they needed that big of a crutch to spend time together in the first place.

"Well you're right." Butch grumbled, rubbing his face. "It's you."  
"Me- Okay. What did I do?" Butch glared at him and Francis put his hands up. "Honestly! I have no clue what's going on."  
"Bullshit." Riled up again, Butch turned to confront the hustler, staring him in the face. "Ever since your mother left-"  
"Butch-"  
"Exactly!" Butch threw up his hands and surprised the hustler out of his sigh "This is exactly my point. Ever since your mom stayed for a while and then left you've been acting like a pod person. You're totally out of it and it feels just – it feels so _weird_, okay? You barely banter with me, you're barely into it even when I antagonize you or try to rile you up. You fuck me like you're bored with the whole thing. It's like you're on autopilot and I'm getting really fucking sick of it and kind of scared okay?"

With all of that out, butch slumped back into the seat. He frowned and rubbed at his neck and bit the inside of his cheek. Francis looked angry. Not enough to take a swing or start shouting, but enough to make him go quiet. Butch was used to this look. He'd seen it make other people wither and cough up payment. After all the fights and nights alone together, this seemed like a stupid reason to be afraid of him. It was kind of a big issue, yes, but Butch was going to hold his ground on this one. He knew he was right. He knew he had some power to fix this. So Butch stared right back, angry and frustrated and since he already had an upper hand and was doing stupid dangerous things, he pushed it more.

"You're not okay Francis and I don't know how to fix you. Fucking tell me!"

Francis opened his mouth and looked like he was about to scramble for an excuse. Butch awaited it, baiting him, daring him to fight back. A moment passed and then other man slumped, and Butch frowned deeper at him, shoulders sagging and crossing his arms. They sat in silence again, much thicker than before, oppressive and angry and breaking their shoulders. Because he didn't know what else to do now that it was out there, because anger hadn't worked and there was no more willingness to fight, because the quiet rung in his ears, Butch moved back into his lap easily, straddling it, his hunched self wrapped up in Francis's arms. Butch clasped his hands around Fran's neck and let his head rest on one of the shoulders.

"I just hate seeing you like this." Butch murmured, his head against Francis', dangerously close to being just a little too affectionate because nothing else was working and this made him feel better too, selfish as it seemed. "You're my friend. You know my secrets. I can handle a few of yours."  
"You're here." Francis told him quietly, his forehead in Butch's shoulder too. "That's something."  
"Lotta good that does."  
"It does help. Really."  
"I can't even distract you like I used to. Must be losing my touch."  
"Don't be so hard on yourself. You've got a couple of years left."

Butch laughed a small, humorless laugh when Francis pinched his side. Francis had avoided his quiet admission, and Butch was a little bit thankful for it. He just wished this would be enough. He'd hoped that being more assertive with his affections, however dangerous, would provoke something. But it wasn't. Francis just kept running on so little. It broke his heart to think like this, but it just wasn't enough, ad he didn't know what was.

"I should go." Butch inhaled and shut his eyes. "Get home for dinner."  
"You're still mad."  
"No, Fran-" Butch pulled back a little to actually look at him, hoping he'd catch a glimmer of something, even confrontation. "I'm not… I'm a little mad. Okay. I'll admit that. I just want to help you."  
"I just told you being here makes it better."  
"I don't believe you, Fran. You're still out of it, even with me." Butch kissed his nose and slipped backwards off his lap.  
"I don't want you to go." Francis told him, his hand limp as Butch slipped away.  
"Francis-"  
"I'm sorry." He blurted, creating and then breaking eye contact. Butch had never seen him look quite so childish, looking at his shoes and grasping the hem of his shirt. "I know I'm off. I just can't… make it work right. She's usually not home this long I usually don't catch her on the way out. I'm usually buried in work by this time. You are helping, in that case."  
"I still don't believe you."

Butch told him this softly, his hands making their way up to cup his face. There was something in there. Something small had tumbled out. Butch felt like the worst hypocrite in the world, trying to coax information out of Francis, his deep dark secrets when he couldn't force his own out into the open. It wouldn't help, he told himself, saying he loved Francis. It would just make things confusing and wrong. Butch couldn't take the minor reaction, but having a violent one against him for saying something so stupidly forward would kill him quicker. Messier. He couldn't take either. Butch just wanted something normal for a change. Something simple. He wanted to be able to push forward and kiss the other man and climb back into his lap and pretend everything was okay. But his eyes were too hard, too hollow for that to happen. He was healing, slowly, maybe, somewhere in there there was a hope, if he could cough up whatever was bothering him. But it wasn't there yet. Not enough to gloss it over.

"I can't make you, I guess." Francis let go of the hem and offered a small smile. Butch didn't let go of him.  
"Lets make a deal."  
"I'm really not in the mood-"  
"Too bad. You're going to agree to this one." Butch let go of him and stood, standing upright and looking down at the other man, bothered by the way his arms crossed over his stomach. "If I stay, you talk. No sex, no making out. You tell me what's on your mind and why you're acting like this. And I'll stay the night and try to actually make you feel better."  
"And if I don't, you leave."  
"That's the deal."

Looking at Francis now, Butch saw something familiar in how exhausted and utterly spent he appeared. He studied the other boy and he hugged himself tighter.

He leaned forward and kissed Francis' brow. He hadn't meant to. He knew he shouldn't have, because Francis leaned up and kissed him proper, harsh and demanding, lacking hands but desperate. Something like this wasn't easy to shrug off. He still felt pity, sympathy, but also something like relief because there – right here – was something.

Butch sat beside him, holding his own stomach, feeling ill but swallowing it down. Francis was flushed and wide-eyed, licking his lips to apologize. Butch waved it off before he could say anything. The silence between them was lighter than before, if only because they were breathing a little heavy.

"Am I staying here tonight?" Butch asked quietly.  
"Sure."

* * *

**Parallels! Parallels forever!**

**The Christine I referenced in the last chapter was a throwback to the character Butch crossdressed as in chapter 4. Also one of the protagonists in The Phantom of the Opera. But you all knew that.**

**Thanks for reading. **


End file.
